Bannon & Zevran Bk I: Origins Ch1: The Grey Wardens
by Bloodsong 13T
Summary: Bannon & Zevran: one of the quickest, slickest, smartest, conniving, lying, thieving, assassining, and insanely annoying rogue duos in existance. Bannon shows his mettle to the Wardens, surviving witches, wraiths, the Joining, war, and starvation.
1. Ostagar

_Warning: foul language_

The raised Imperial Highway grew more cracked and worn as they travelled south. Several points were reinforced with timbers to prevent the loss of wagons. Finally, it knelt down like a great beast on the verge of dying and buried its head in the ground. The army had built ramps to ease the transition down to the trampled earth. Duncan and Bannon moved ahead as the wagon masters began organizing their teams to descend.

There was an outpost of soldiers guarding the ramp. They did not delay the passage of the Warden and his charge, because messengers had already been through.

The army was encamped in the foothills at the base of a steep cliff. Bannon could see ancient Tevinter towers above them, rising towards the pearl grey clouds. From this distance, they looked whole and majestic, like the grand castles in the wonder tales. He shook his head. No doubt they were as broken and crumbling as the highway. Useful to an extent, but full of cracks and holes.

Bannon and Duncan made their way between some winding hills, screened with a few trees. Then they came out onto a rough plain. Clearly, it was the site of a recent battle. Broken arrows and scraps of armor littered the ground. Unconsciously, they quickened their pace as crows jeered at them from a twisted old tree crouching on a hillock.

They moved east, towards the southern end of the ruins. There was a great divide between two cliffs, spanned by a monumental bridge. Stone pillars as large around as a house rose a hundred feet towards the sky. The stone bridge rested on delicate-looking arches borne by the pillars.

More of the army was encamped in the ravine; the Warden and his recruit passed many guards patrolling the area, and several ranks of soldiers drilling with weapons. They continued unchallenged up a narrow path that climbed the southern cliff. This section was more overgrown, the ruins filled with dirt and bits of wall worn down to rounded nubs, somewhat like gravestones.

"The main camp is in the ruins on the other side of the ravine," Duncan said. He led Bannon along a broken path littered with upturned paving stones and pieces of statuary. They came out on what appeared to be an old piece of the Imperial Highway that widened out onto the bridge they had seen from below.

"Isn't there an easier way to get there?" the elf griped.

"Easier, yes. But not as fast." Duncan walked several paces out onto the bridge, then leaned his elbows on the stone railing. Bannon wasn't sure he'd want to try that, as cracked and old as it was. There were some rather large chunks missing from the bridge further down the span. He moved a bit past Duncan, peering at the army over the edge. "The soldiers are camped on the grounds below; the bulk of the army," Duncan explained. "The elite, the officers, the Grey Wardens, and the mages are up here. To the north is the elven encampment." The human cast a sidewise look at Bannon, as if reading his thoughts of sneaking off there. "There's a switchback that the wagons use, back where we left the supply train. The enemy can't get to it without going through the whole army first. Your people are well-protected."

"Valuable resources, hm?" Can't let the darkspawn destroy the food, supplies, and servants.

Duncan lowered his head. He seemed to hesitate a minute, then he said, "You have a rather limited range of experience with humans. Forgive me for saying so, but where you're from, you only come in contact with the dregs of human society. Not all humans are so hateful and contemptuous towards elves."

"Ah," Bannon said, nodding thoughtfully. "There are all those nobles," he pointed out. "Fine, upstanding humans. Dote on their elven servants. Oh, like, say... Vaughn. Now there's a fine prince of a-"

Duncan whirled quickly on him. "Hold your tongue!"

Bannon opened his mouth to tell the shem where to stick it, but Duncan flicked his eyes past Bannon, towards the far end of the bridge.

The elf turned. A group of armored men was marching towards them at a quick pace. Their breastplates gleamed, even in the overcast light. The men wore golden capes, and the fellow out front must have been someone important, for his armor was gold-burnished. He wore no helmet, and his shoulder-length golden hair rippled with each step he took. His oval face was accented with strong angles of brow and jaw. His crystal blue eyes danced as he drew up to them. "Duncan!" he called, smiling brightly.

The Grey Warden moved to the center of the bridge, giving Bannon a surreptitious hand signal to hang back. Bannon didn't begrudge him; this was clearly one of the noble fancy-pants he had been about to insult. The elf faded into the background.

"Your Majesty," Duncan said. Did he actually sound nervous? "I didn't expect-"

"A royal welcome?" The golden shem beamed brightly. "I got the word from the lookouts and came to meet you." His blue gaze flashed at Bannon. "And this must be the new recruit you mentioned."

'Your Majesty'? 'Royal welcome'? Shit! It was the King of Ferelden! Bannon dropped to one knee, head bowed. "Your Majesty," he said contritely, hoping the king hadn't noticed his lack of swift obesiance.

"Please, friend," King Cailen said, stepping forward. "There's no need for that. The Grey Wardens are a noble order, honored by myself, like my father before me." He reached down and helped Bannon to rise. The king actually touched him! Touched him with his golden gauntlets! Bannon was overwhelmed. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine talking to the king. And the king treating him like a friend. Damn! It's good to be a Warden! Cailen smiled as if understanding the bemused expression that must be plastered on his face. "What is your name, friend?"

"Bannon, Your Majesty."

The king nodded. "I am glad Duncan has found a worthy recruit for the Wardens. Thank you for joining us in this fight." A little less official-sounding, he said, "I am concerned about the poverty of your people in Denerim. When we win this war, I will be looking into reforms to improve the lives of the elves, and bring down the alienage wall."

"You are too kind, Your Majesty," Bannon said humbly. By the glances a couple of the guards were shooting at each other, they thought so, too.

The king turned his attention back to Duncan. "You've missed another battle, my friend; two days ago. The Wardens fought like beasts at the front!" Cailen grinned, though a worried look crossed Duncan's face. "None were killed," the exuberant ruler assured him. "We beat back the darkspawn again. But the Archdemon hasn't shown itself." His expression sobered and he stroked his jaw thoughtfully. And unspoken question passed between King and Warden.

"It will, Your Majesty," Duncan said with ominous certainty.

"I hope so. It will be just like the tales." He turned to face the western horizon, gesturing for Duncan to stand beside him. The Warden moved to comply, his face sternly schooled. "The King doing battle with the Grey Wardens at his side. It will be glorious!" Just then, the clouds broke up a little, and broad swaths of light speared down towards the battlefield. For a moment the tableau did look like a painting of the triumphant heroes of old. The king's armor gleamed. As for Duncan's, well, the Warden was still covered in road dust from the journey.

"Well," the king said; "I'm late for a meeting with Loghain. I'd better hurry back before he sends out a search party again." He looked over to Bannon a moment. "Good luck, friend," he said sincerely. "Duncan, I will see you at the strategy meeting tonight."

Duncan crossed his wrists before his chest and gave the king a Ferelden bow. Bannon quickly copied him. Apparently, this was one formality the Wardens were not exempt from. The king signalled to his guards, and led them back across the bridge. The elf watched them go.

"Did the King of Ferelden just say he hoped there was an Archdemon coming to ravage his country?" Bannon asked, as the entourage vanished from sight.

Duncan rubbed his temples. "You must understand, Cailen is a young king. Whose father indulged him when he was a boy." When Bannon didn't say anything, but just kept staring at him, the Warden added, "He's a good man. It's only a pity his father died so suddenly. But Maric always was one for adventures," he mused regretfully. King Maric, Cailen's father, had set out on an expedition to foreign lands, but his ship went down in a storm, all hands lost. That was only a few years ago; Bannon remembered the city of Denerim going into mourning. Duncan broke out of his own musings and started across the bridge. "Teyrn Loghain is still the general of Ferelden's armies. Have no fear, his experience and wisdom will temper our king's enthusiasm. Fortunately, you won't have to deal with either of them. Your one concern as a Grey Warden is stopping the Blight. No matter who is in charge, our job is to slay darkspawn and the Archdemon."

Bannon couldn't argue with that, so he followed Duncan without comment. The Warden briefly described the camp layout, then told Bannon he was on his own to explore. The shem probably couldn't wait to get rid of him. He told the elf to go find someone named Alistair. Apparently, he was the Warden in charge of the new recruits. "And _do_ stay out of trouble," Duncan said, with a threatening look. "This is an army camp; they are not so lenient as civilians."

Bannon just rolled his eyes. What did this guy think, he was stupid? The impatience to part company for a few hours was mutual. He wandered off in the opposite direction, eager to find out where he was sleeping tonight, and where he could stow his gear. Come to think of it, weren't the Wardens supposed to provide him with gear? A proper set of leathers, not these bulky things he and Soris had stripped from dead guards.


	2. The Recruits and the Carpenter

_(no warnings)_

Bannon went past the mages' section, up a ramp to an old, collonaded area that still had parts of its thick stone roof intact. The elf he'd asked had pointed out this way. He neared a corner and heard raised voices.

"We will not stand for this harassment by the Chantry!" There was a dark-skinned man with tightly braided hair standing there. He wore midnight blue robes that fell in orderly pleats to his ankles. He bore a staff with a curled tip that was bound in brass. He was arguing with another man, a fair-skinned warrior in worn splintmail armor.

"Yes," the second man retorted, in glib irony, "_I_ was harrassing _you_, by delivering a message."

"We are here at the King's behest," the mage snarled. "We are not here at the beck and call of her Holiness, or her pet dogs!"

"Oh, now you've gone an insulted me." The warrior sighed dramatically. "Here I thought we were getting along so well. I was even going to name one of my children after you," he said, his voice tinged with regret... until he added: "-the grumpy one!"

Bannon snorted in amusement, and the mage shot him an evil look. He spared a withering glance at the soldier. "Fine!" the mage spat. "Consider your message delivered." He stormed off.

"You know, one good thing about the Blight," the warrior remarked fondly, "is how it brings people together in the spirit of brotherly love and harmony." His mouth crooked in a sardonic grin. Then he blinked and focussed on Bannon. "Sorry. Were you looking for me?"

"I'm supposed to find this Grey Warden named Alistair?"

The human beamed a smile. "That's me! I'm Alistair, the newest Grey Warden. What do you need?"

"Duncan said I should find you; you'd show me around?"

"Duncan's back?" The smile broadened in glee. The shem almost bounded off like a boisterous puppy. He seemed to catch himself at the last second. "Oh! You must be the new recruit?"

Bannon nodded. "Yes, ser. My name's Bannon."

"Pleased to meet you." Alistair extended a hand, and Bannon was so shocked, he found himself taking it. The Warden shook his hand with a warm, firm grip. There didn't seem to be any artifice to this guy. His face was open and honest, his dark blond hair in a short military cut. There was a bit of fuzz on his chin, a square patch below his lower lip. Maybe he wasn't all that used to shaving. Although he looked fully grown, something about him seemed very young. Perhaps it was just naivete. "Did Duncan bring anyone else?"

"No," said Bannon, his curiosity piqued. "Who else were you expecting?"

"No one, really," Alistair replied, his voice dropping from its exhuberant pitch. "It's just that we were hoping to get more recruits. There are only two others here, besides you." He shrugged with a moue of resignation. "It's difficult to find suitable candidates. Not everyone is cut out to be a Grey Warden."

Bannon narrowed his eyes. "So I've been told."

The human either didn't notice his ire, or he just didn't acknowledge anything that didn't fit into his cheerful world view. "Well, let's do the grand tour, shall we? I'm sure we'll run into the other recruits along the way."

...

The camp was fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle. Instead of even rows and straight picket lines, it was divided by segments of walls, ramps, clumps of trees, and occassional constructions the army had raised, like the kennels and the stables. Each chunk of ruin was given over to whatever purpose fit it best. The mages had a neatly-enclosed L-shaped segment, guarded by Templars. Blue light flashed through chinks in the walls as mages worked on enchantments. A raised stone floor was fortified with a canvas roof and served as a long-term hospital area. A broad apron between two gutted towers served as a drilling area and lookout post. The King and the General had massive tents near there. There was also a huge pen for the dogs of the King's elite Ash Warriors.

Alistair gravitated towards the pen. Bannon followed, a faint line appearing between his brows. He didn't like the way the big, hairy shems were looking at him. They were uglier than their dogs.

Alistair leaned on the fence, and Bannon tensed in anticipation of him getting his face ripped off. But the mabari war hounds just crowded around, heavy jaws agape, their stumpy tails wagging madly. Bannon edged closer, putting the Warden between him and the Ash Warriors. He was very careful of where he stepped. Alistair grinned down at the slobbering hounds. "Who's the King's best warriors?" A chorus of _arf_s anwered him. "Yes you are!" he simpered. Bannon forestalled rolling his eyes by hitching his pack up higher on his shoulder. Maybe that'd give Alistair a hint that they should get a move on. Then again, subtletly might be lost on this guy. Alistair turned and said to him, "You know, when I was a boy, I spent almost all my time in the kennels."

"Really?" That was interesting. Not in and of itself - that was just downright weird. But Bannon realized Alistair must be of noble blood, to have lived somewhere with kennels full of mabari. His estimation of the shem dropped another few notches.

"Yes," Alistair said with a happy sigh. "Good times." Bannon just stared politely at him until he shook himself and said, "Well, let's see about getting you settled in. The Quatermaster is this way..." He tore himself away from the hounds. "Do you need any supplies?"

"Uhm," Bannon hedged, moving alongside him. "I don't have any money, ser," he said quickly, sounding poor and a little embarassed about it. Of course he had money; he'd left home with thirty coppers in his pocket, and he'd managed to gain a bit more with some judicious investments in dice games while he'd travelled with the army. But he needn't mention all _that_. Not when there was a noble shem to fleece. Wouldn't want to burden the fellow's mind with too many details. "Duncan said you could fix me up."

"He did?" Alistair looked puzzled.

"Well, he said we do get paid," Bannon assured him hastily. "But I just got here, and I haven't gotten paid yet... Of course, I can pay you right back when I do."

"Oh! Well, I'm sure I have something here." The shem fumbled with his belt pouch. "How much do you need?"

"Well, I don't know, ser." Bannon poured on the trustworthy innocent look. "I do have some things to trade. And I do have a sword already."

Alistair nodded. "Well, here." He just handed the money pouch to Bannon without even counting it. Score! "If that's not enough... I guess we can work something out to get you some credit as a Grey Warden. We're important, you know." He winked.

Bannon slowly grinned. Clearly, Alistair had spent more time in the kennels than working with the family ledgers. "Thank you, ser. I'll give you your change right away."

For a moment, the human grimaced uncomfortably. "Look, Bannon... you don't have to 'ser' me all the time." He looked a bit sheepish. "The Wardens don't stand a lot on rank and ceremony. Besides which, I hardly rank anything. I was only inducted a few weeks ago."

"Thank you, ser."

"Just 'Alistair' is fine. Really!" The human chuckled lightly, and he really seemed to mean it. Duncan had said that Bannon only knew the dregs of human society, and that there were decent shems. Maybe it was true. Or, maybe Alistair was just the exception that proved the rule.

...

Alistair shook his head with a smile. He liked Bannon - not that that was unusual; there was hardly a person he couldn't get along with. But something about the elf seemed... 'out of place,' he supposed. Then again, he _was_ an elf, amidst a whole lot of big, armored humans. He had to feel a bit sorry for the little fellow. Alistair vowed to do his best to make Bannon feel more comfortable.

The Quartermaster was a burly man, his bare arms thickened from lifting and carrying heavy boxes; his leather apron stained with whetstone oil and leather polish. His "store" was a corner formed by a wall of crates turned on their sides to serve as shelving, and the brick back of the forge next to it. Rickety planks served as tables and the counter. The place was a beehive of activity as soldiers came to trade or make purchases; and elven servants carried weapons and armor for repair, or made deliveries. Alistair and Bannon waited their turn.

"There's Daveth," Alistair said, pointing over to a young fellow in battered leather armor. He carried a finely-carved bow of pale wood over one shoulder. "He's one of the other recruits." Alistair left the queue to go talk to him.

Daveth was chatting to one of his friends - one of his lady friends. Or, rather, one of the women warriors he was _hoping_ would become one of his lady friends. Alistair wasn't sure if this one was Johanna or Clarise. Whoever it was, she just gave Daveth a pitying look, turned up her nose, and stalked off. Daveth called gamely after her, "We'll be in battle soon. Don't put it off too much longer! Death could be just around the corner!"

Alistair came up beside him, though Daveth didn't notice for a minute as he craned his neck to watch the woman until she was out of sight. "Oh, that's going well," Alistair cracked. The other human just shot him a look. "Duncan's back," the Warden said, quickly switching topic.

"Oh, good. Are we finally going to through with this initiation thing?"

"Soon," Alistair assured him. The lanky recruit had been chafing under all the secrecy surrounding the Grey Warden Joining ritual. Alistair couldn't blame him, but neither could he tell him the details. "There's another new recruit, too; his name is Bannon." He gestured back towards the Quartermaster's stand.

Bannon had gotten up to the counter and laid out a pair of leather cuirasses - one of which had seen better days. Alistair wondered who had been wearing it when it got that slash through the chest, and if the poor blighter had survived. The Quartermaster was still busy counting coins into his cash box.

Suddenly, a thin, red-haired elf darted right in front of Alistair and Daveth. "Sorry, sers!" He skidded to a halt, almost colliding with the Quartermaster's ample backside. "The packet from the Red Brigade," he announced, almost dropping the bulky package as he wrestled with it.

"Dammit, Pik!" the Quartermaster growled, turning. "Didn't I send you down there half an hour ago? Have you been dawdling again?"

"No, ser! The Ash Warriors -" Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off as the burly human cuffed him hard across the face. With a yelp, Pik did drop the package.

Bannon looked down at the ground under the counter, biting his lip so hard, Alistair expected to see blood start dripping from it. The Warden glanced at Daveth, who only shrugged uncomfortably. Alistair's face clouded with a scowl.

The Quartermaster cursed again. "Pick that up and put it on the bench where it belongs! Then get that sword to Lord Darrien; he's been waiting all day, you lazy knife-ears!"

"Yes, ser!" The elf scrambled to obey.

"We do _not_ keep the lords waiting!" The Quartermaster turned and saw Bannon. "What are you doing?" he snarled. "That counter is for paying customers! Deliveries are to be neatly packed and placed on the bench." He glanced at the hilt sticking up over Bannon's shoulder. "And what are you doing with that sword? The soldiers' things are not toys for you to play with!"

Bannon had quit biting his lip, which is a good thing, because Alistair was sure he could hear the elf's teeth grinding from here. "I'm with the Grey Wardens," Bannon growled at the Quartermaster.

"What? I'll have none of your nonsense, knife-ears!"

Alistair and Daveth moved up beside the elf. "He's with the Grey Wardens," Alistair said in a low, forceful voice. Daveth didn't say anything; he just glared.

"Uhm..." The Quartermaster blinked, and his eyes darted between the three of them. "I didn't know they took - er..." He lifted his shoulders and shook his head. "Well, no one told me, did they?" he asked defensively.

Bannon reined in his temper. "It's all right," he told Alistair and Daveth. They eased back a little while the elf traded in the used armor bits for a set of elf-fitted leathers. Alistair also helped him pick out a few other useful things: bedroll, bandages, whetstone. The haggling back and forth between the Quartermaster and elf made him dizzy, though.

At last, Bannon had his new gear paid for and packed up. Daveth introduced himself and offered to help carry some. But Alistair wasn't done with the Quartermaster. "I don't know where you learned your prejudices, but you'd better start respecting your elven helpers more."

"I'm not prejudiced, ser," the Quartermaster insisted. "There are a good many fine elves, but... a lot of 'em, they have this attitude. Like they owe us payback for being slaves, hundreds of years ago! And they do it any way they can manage: being lazy, lying, stealing, shirking their jobs... They don't think they should have to work; they think the world owes 'em something. If you don't keep a tight rein on them, they'll walk all over you."

Alistair just shook his head in disgust and walked off after the other two.

...

The Wardens had a secluded area behind the hospital and prison section. They got Bannon settled into a tent pitched in a small cul-de-sac where the recruits were stationed. They met a few of the Grey Wardens briefly, but they didn't exchange many words. The Wardens actually seemed particularly cold to Bannon, and he got the feeling they didn't like elves. He was clearly the only one recruited to join their little cadre.

Alistair went off to find Duncan, and Daveth took Bannon around to the mess tent so they could get some dinner. They ran into Ser Jory, the other new recruit. He was a knight from up north, a hefty man with close-cropped hair. In fact, the hair bristling off his chin was longer than the fuzz on his head. Bannon wondered who would find such an ugly, mixed-up combination attractive, but apparently Ser Jory was married, so shem women must. Some of them, anyway.

Bannon figured Ser Jory for some noble right away, judging by the laye of fat covering his muscles. Clearly, he had grown up in a household full of elven servants, and went out of his way to assure Bannon that he thought the elf would make a fine Warden despite being a lesser race. Bannon just adopted a dull-eyed look and subservient air that many of the elves used when interacting with humans. Really, sometimes that was the easiest way to deal with them. They were so fat and stupid, they couldn't even comprehend how insulting they were.

Daveth was clearly of a lower class and not apologetic about it. He was lanky and lean, dark-haired and scruffy. He propositioned at least three of the women in the mess tent, and struck out on all counts. _What an amateur_, Bannon thought. He couldn't imagine any woman, even a near-sighted shem, being attracted to a man with stubble all over his face. He looked like someone had dragged his head through wet gravel and some of it had stuck.

...

As evening drew on, the recruits returned to their area. As they passed the rows of tents and fires of the Grey Wardens, one of the grizzled veterans gave them a jug of ale. "To celebrate your last night," he said cryptically. The three gave him puzzled looks, but Bannon thanked him all the same.

"What was that about?" he muttered to Daveth, as they entered their little enclave.

"The initation, probably," the rogue answered back. "Hopefully we'll get it done tomorrow, and this mysterious mystery nonsense will be over."

Alistair was there, tending the small fire, and he welcomed them. "Yes, it's true," he told them as they settled around him. "Tomorrow, we're to head out into the Wilds for the first part of the initiation ritual. By tomorrow night, you'll be Grey Wardens." The normally ebullient human glanced down as he said this, and Bannon got the sense there was something else he wasn't saying.

Ser Jory said, "Finally!"

"Are you going to tell us what this 'Joining' is, now?" Daveth asked, pouring some of their gifted ale into a mug and handing it to the Warden.

"No," Alistair said carefully and firmly. "So you can stop asking. And stop trying to get me drunk so I'll tell you."

"Give that back, then!" The rogue made a grab for the mug, and Alistair yanked it out of his reach, laughing. Bannon and Jory scrounged up some mugs for themselves, and comandeered the ale before the other two spilled it all.

Alistair sipped at his drink. "Duncan will tell you what you need to know, tomorrow morning." Daveth asked him several more questions, but that's all the young Warden would say on the subject. "Really," Alistair finally insisted. "Don't you have anything else to talk about?"

Bannon raised his mug, indicating he had one. "I was just curious," he said; "How did you guys get into this job?"

"Duncan recruited me," Alistair said, the warmth he felt for their leader clear in his voice. "I was in training with the Templars. If you can believe that." He finished off his ale and held his mug out for a refill.

"He recruited me, too," said Ser Jory, while Daveth was busy filling Alistair's mug. "I'm a knight in Highever. I was at a tournament in Redcliffe. Best in my division," he proclaimed proudly.

"The heavy-weight division," Daveth interjected with a snicker.

The knight snorted. "Greatsword, you ninny." He seemed a bit flustered, confused how to handle the rogue's teasing. "Afterward, Duncan asked me to join the Grey Wardens. The need was dire, and I agreed."

"I'm from Amaranthine," Daveth said. "Well, not originally, but that's where I ended up. I won't lie: Duncan saved my neck from the noose - literally, and at the last minute - with that Right of Conscription." He rubbed his neck, eyes darkening with the memory. "Yes, I'm a crook and a thief." He brightened. "But now I use my talents for the good of mankind." He chuckled slyly and winked. "Knights and rogues, defending the virgins! I mean, 'virtuous'!" Daveth raised his mug and took a long gulp.

Ser Jory gave him another indignant snort. Alistair only chuckled. Then he looked at Bannon. "So what is it you do?"

Bannon glanced at each of the human faces looking at him with open curiosity. Hesitantly, he said, "I'm a carpenter." He looked down at his mug. He couldn't tell them the truth - if word got back to Arl Urien, neither the King nor the Grey Wardens would stop the powerful noble from taking him and having him executed.

The shems exchanged dubious glances. "And...," Alistair probed, "why did Duncan recruit you, exactly?"

"There was a brawl," Bannon said, not looking up. "I had the most knock-downs." He shrugged uncomfortably.

Yet again, the humans exchanged looks. This was not doing a thing to win over their admiration. Well, he doubted that 'Oh, and I killed a high-ranking noble' would help matters any.

"Care to elaborate?" Alistair asked again, looking confused and embarassed at being confused.

Bannon took a deep breath and hoped the story he would come up with would satisfy them. "There was a wedding," he began. "Actually, a double wedding." He left out the fact that he was in it. "As it started, the one bride noticed on of the other bride's bridesmaids had on a dress that she had wanted to buy, but she didn't have enough money at the time, so she asked the tailor to hold it for her. He said he would, but she was late with the money, and his brother was courting the other woman, so he sold it to her, instead. Well, they started to get into that." He didn't bother elaborating or qualifying his pronouns. Confused shems asked fewer questions, for fear of looking stupid. Rapidly, Bannon continued. "Then it came out that the other groom's brother had been making time with the other bride the night before. That's when the real fighting broke out, and the families got into it, and there was quite a ruckus, and the cake was demolished. Well, anyway, I was the last one left standing when the City Guard got there, so they were talking about arresting me, but Duncan took care of that and brought me here." He _really_ didn't mention the details of all that.

The humans stared at him, barely blinking, for two whole minutes. Bannon gave them the wide-eyed innocent look.

"Serious?" Alistair finally asked.

Bannon nodded. "Oh, I know street fighting," he assured them. "I can take care of myself."

Somehow, they didn't look convinced. It hurt Bannon's ego, but it was all for the best, really. If they heard rumors of him killing anyone, they'd be more likely to scoff. "Well...," he added, feigning reluctance only partially. "I guess I could do with some sparring. If we have time."

"Definitely," said Alistair. He frowned into his mug.

Daveth grinned affably at Bannon. "I'll show you a thing or two," he offered.

"What, like stabbing people in the back?" Ser Jory accused with a moue of disdain.

"Not everyone can wield a huge blade, ser knight," Daveth told him humbly. Then his hand darted out to poke Jory's ample stomach. "Not all of us are _big_ enough," he teased. "We need _some_ way to keep up."

"Lay off," the knight blustered, slapping at Daveth's hand.

"So, hmm..." Daveth gave Bannon and appraising look, squinting one eye. "You're a carpenter. Should we get you a hammer to fight with?" He laughed good-naturedly, and Bannon joined him.

"Well, I do carve wood, so I _am_ good with knives," the elf said with a grin.

"And a sword is just a really big knife!" The scruffy human grinned back. "We'll have you sorted in no time!"

...

The army settled down for the night, like a vast dragon curling up to roost, twitching here and there, trying to get comfortable and relax. Alistair picked his way carefully in the dark to the orange glow of the Warden watchfire. Duncan sat at the mouth of his tent, staring into the flames. Harsh shadows carved lines of worry in his face. By daylight, he looked as strong and impassive as a marble statue of a guardian. But the night was unkind, and the cracks began to show. He seemed lost in thought, oblivious as the former Templar came up on him. Then he looked up, and his face softened with his fondness for his young protege.

Alistair smiled back and settled to the ground next to him, with a slight grunt. He waved off the bottle Duncan offered. "No thanks. I had my ration with the recruits."

The Warden Commander nodded and set it down. "How are they getting along?" he asked. "Will they be ready for the excursion into the Wilds tomorrow?"

"Um...," Alistair hesitated. "I'm not too sure about this new guy, Bannon." He picked up a small clod of dirt and turned it nervously in his fingers until it crumbled into so much dust. Alistair liked Duncan a lot; they were good friends. But he couldn't help also feeling intimidated by the older man's rank and experience. It was rather like having a caring but stern father, or so Alistair imagined. Authority, he could deal with - behind the rigid discipline of the Templar Knights, or the cocky irreverance that was always just shy of real insubordination. But he also cared about Duncan's feelings, and didn't want to the man to think less of him. It was a tricky dichotomy to balance. "I was just wondering," Alistair ventured cautiously. "I'm not trying to second guess your judgement or anything - but why, exactly, did you recruit him?"

Duncan nursed his mug of ale. Without looking up, he said carefully, "He saw an injustice. And at great personal risk, he set out to rectify that injustice." He took a slow sip.

Alistair puzzled that one over. He couldn't quite figure it out, so he pushed onward again. "At a brawl, at a wedding?" No, the picture was not becoming any clearer in the young Warden's mind.

Duncan chuckled. "Something like that."

Now Alistair gnawed at his lower lip. That, he understood: there was something they weren't telling him. He shook his head. "Sorry, but I have to ask, if you want me to take care of these recruits." Lead them, is what Duncan wanted. Alistair shied away from that thought. "I understand Templars and knights, and even hardened criminals, but... a _carpenter_?"

This time, Duncan hand to laugh out loud, though he kept his voice down in the darkness.

Alistair stopped his nervous fiddling and pressed his hands together, squeezed one fist inside the other. He tried to not feel angry; Duncan was not one of the bullies from Alistair's childhood. He wasn't laughing at him. Exactly. "Call me stupid," he said, though it came out harsher than he meant; "I just don't get it. Can he even fight? I mean a real fight, not brawling bridesmaids."

Duncan laughed again at Alistair's irrepressible wit. Then he coughed to collect himself and replied, "City elves aren't permitted weapons and training. Well, unless they are retained by a noble family as house guards."

"Meaning..." Alistair's eyes flicked back and forth as he traced through his thoughts. "It's illegal for carpenters to learn to use a sword."

"Mm hm." Duncan sipped at his ale.

"So... if he did learn, he wouldn't come out and say so?"

"Mm."

Alistair mulled this over, then decided to just come out and say it. "All right, are you doing this enlightened mystic bit just to annoy me?"

"It's the prerogative of crotchety old teachers everywhere, isn't it?" Duncan said with a grin, his teeth showing white against his dark beard. "How else are we to supposed to amuse ourselves?"

"Ha-ha," Alistair retorted, but without a sting. He suppressed his own smile. "So can he fight or not?"

"Yes. He can." Duncan was serious once more. "I daresay he knows more about 'real' fighting than our illustrious knight."

His young friend nodded. "All right. I trust your judgement."

"You don't need to, Alistair," the Commander told him. "Test him for yourself. Trust your _own_ judgement."

"Well, I don't want to waste time," the Templar said quickly. "If he's good enough for you, that's good enough for me. I shouldn't have questioned you." Of course Duncan knew better! Alistair was the inexperienced one, with no worldly wisdom or knowledge to speak of.

Duncan sighed. "When are you going to learn to make your own decisions and to have confidence in them?"

The Warden sounded almost bitterly disappointed. Alistair deflected it with his ready humor. "When I don't have crotchety old commanders to tell me what to do, ser!" He snapped out a silly salute with a swirling filigree and forced a laugh. Of course it didn't escape him that they were on a battlefield, in a very real war, against a merciless foe. But he couldn't imagine Duncan dead, he couldn't _think_ of it, because that way led to madness. If the unthinkable did happen, he would deal with it then. Or, more likely, he'd be dead. If any Wardens perished, it would be the younger recruits on the front lines. He took morbid comfort in this thought.

"Well, I should be getting to my tent," he said, levering up to his feet and dusting his hands off. Another good thing about the Grey Wardens - they really didn't stand on rank and formalities all the time. He didn't need to wait for his superior to officially dismiss him. "Good night," he told his friend. "Oh, and don't forget, tomorrow night is card night!"

"Good night, Alistair," said Duncan, a smile creasing his beard. "And I look forward to fleecing you all again."


	3. An Early Start

_Warnings: mild language_

A rope creaked incessantly in the stillness of dusk. The air was thick with moisture, making it hard for Bannon to draw breath as he wended his way though a forest of blackened posts and timbers. He pushed himself faster; he urgently needed to find the source of that noise.

He rounded a corner and stopped dead. He squeezed his eyes shut and jerked his head aside, but it was too late. He had seen the body hanging from the gibbet, dangling by its twisted neck; its face purpled; its swollen, blackened tongue protruding obscenely. "Soris," he sobbed his cousin's name.

"A fitting end for a murderer."

Bannon's head snapped up, his eyes narrowed in anger. Bann Vaughn stood there, his ginger hair immaculately groomed, his fancy clothes so neat, not a single thread out of place. And that smug nobleman's smile on his face.

"He's not a murderer," Bannon growled. "I killed you! I did it!" Enshackled by the dream, he didn't realize the incongruity of the whole situation. He just kept screaming at Vaughn until he woke himself up. "_I killed you! I KILLED YOU!_"

...

Bannon sat up in his cot, biting his tongue to keep from crying out. Just a dream, he told himself. They couldn't hang Soris - there wasn't anyone in Denerim with the authority to order executions at the moment. They would just hold him in Fort Drakon for now. Until Arl Urien returned. Bannon lay back down, passing the back of his wrist across his forehead to wipe away the beads of sweat that had just turned cold. Arl Urien was here, at Ostagar. If he learned what Bannon had done...

That wasn't going to happen, the elf told himself firmly. Duncan hadn't told anyone the circumstances of Bannon's recruitment. The Grey Wardens were an autonomous military group; Duncan didn't have any superior to report to, so who would he tell? Bannon wasn't about to let anything slip. The elves from Denerim that had been there that day had left with the wagon train before the wedding had even started.

He took a deep breath and tried to relax. It didn't help much, but he eventually dirifted off into a light, restless sleep.

...

He tossed and turned in his cot so much, that there wasn't much point staying in it as grey dawn light filtered over the encampment. Bannon kicked off the blanket and got dressed. He pulled his new leather armor on over his shirt and breeches. It wasn't brand new, but it was freshly-cleaned, and broken in. The buckles were unfamiliar, but he got them sorted out. This was much more comfortable than the shem armor he had made do with in the arl's estate. It had matching knee and elbow guards, boots with reinforced shin plates. The gloves were thick on the backs of the hands, but thin on the palms, and fingerless, which allowed him the full dexterity of his fingers.

He buckled the harness of Duncan's sword over it. Well, his sword, now. He'd spent some time on the way over practicing drawing and sheathing it. Sheathing it, especially; without skewering his shoulders in the process. He didn't want to look like a completely incompetent idiot, after all.

Then he ran his hand quickly back through his hair, probably skewing the locks worse than they had been from sleeping, and ducked out of the tent. The cul-de-sac where the recruits' were bivouacked was silent. Bannon moved quietly out of the area to explore the camp. There was a bit of mist this morning, diluting the sun's light to a dull grey. After a stop at the jakes and a quick washup at a rainbarrel, his nose led him to the mess tent. The army cooks weren't done boiling up batches of porrige, but a street rat who knew how to scrounge could come up with a bounty of leftover scraps from the night before. It was cold ham and day-old bread, but it was exceedingly rare to get meat for breakfast in the alienage.

He was about to sink his teeth into a thick sandwich cobbled together from the scraps and an old cheese rind, when a voice halted him.

"_Where_ did you get _that_?" Alistair came up beside him, eyes goggling at the sandwich. The shem was almost drooling.

"Around the back." Bannon flicked his head that way, and took a quick bite, before the shem got any ideas about appropriating his sandwich.

"Here I've been waiting twenty minutes for a bowl of mushy porridge!" The human scurried off, through the tent flap leading to the cookfires, probably to annoy the cooks. Bannon shook his head. Stuck up shem certainly never had to scrounge in the trash for food before. He continued to wolf down his sandwich.

Alistair reappeared a few minutes later with a tray. He set it down with a clatter right beside Bannon, and he took a seat on the bench next to the elf. The elf just gave him a strange look. Damn, this guy was friendly. Bannon edged away slightly as the human settled down, and he turned his attention to the last bits of bread and meat. Alistair slid one of two bowls off the tray and pushed it in front of Bannon. "Here you go."

The elf looked at the steaming grey glop dubiously. "What's this?"

"Either porridge or gruel," the human replied with a glib smile. "I'm not quite sure what the difference is, exactly." He also had a makeshift sandwich on his tray. He grabbed that with one hand and his spoon in the other, and began alternating which one he shoved into his mouth, barely pausing to chew. "Mmm," he said around a mouthful, "fahnks foah the tip!"

"Sure." Bannon didn't know what to make of Alistair's affability. On a gut level, he didn't trust it. Surely the shem wanted something from him. Something tangible or worse, just some 'entertainment.' He speculated on what might be hidden in the gruel. He looked around the nearly empty mess tent for an escape. However, a half dozen of the Ash warriors bustled in. A few of them shot the elf dirty looks, but none said anything. Maybe Alistair's father was some big lord who'd give them a boatload of trouble if they upset his doting son. Well, the young Warden was a better ally than those hairy brutes. Bannon turned to Alistair. "Oh, I haven't gotten my pay yet, ser. But as soon as I do-"

"Oh, don't worry about that." Alistair waved it off. He put down his spoon long enough to grab up a mug and take a drink. "Are you going to eat that?" he asked, eyeing the untouched bowl in front of Bannon.

"No, I'm fine," the elf said. "Help yourself."

"Hey, thanks!"

Bannon tried not to stare at the human shovelling food down his gullet as if he were trying to fill a barrel with a teaspoon. How was this guy not fat? The elf nibbled at his own sandwich crust, glancing surreptitously at the Ash warriors, who were now seated several feet away, and waiting for the cooks to bring the food out so they could line up and get their breakfasts.

"You know," Alistair said, slowing down a bit. "You look how I feel. Have a rough night, did you?"

Bannon blinked. "Huh? Do I look that bad?" He combed a hand through his hair, and winced as his fingers hit a snarl.

"Not as bad as I do, I'm sure." The human rubbed a hand back and forth over his head, and the short-cropped hair in front stood up crookedly. "I haven't been sleeping so well since I joined the Grey Wardens."

"Why not?" Bannon cocked his head in mild curiosity.

Alistair opened his mouth as if to say something, but one of those looks flashed across his face and he ended up just saying, "Oh, no particular reason. Just... well, I expect being in the army is different for you, too? From what you're used to, I mean."

Bannon thought back on it. Yeah, travelling the country roads, the Imperial Highway, camping out, carrying a sword... "Definitely."

"You'll settle in; don't worry." The human smiled and used the crust of his bread to wipe gruel out of his two bowls until they were as clean as if they'd been polished. "Army-ing builds up an appetite, too," he said sheepishly.

"I thought the Grey Wardens weren't part of the army proper."

Alistair waved his last bite of breadcrust as he swallowed a mouthful, then shoved the rest into his mouth and said, "Well, it's a separate order; it's not even Ferelden in origin. But we work with the army, we camp with them here, we work with the king." He shrugged and swallowed again. "You know. Technicalities."

"Everybody fights the darkspawn."

"You know it." The human nodded solemnly. Then he brightened again. "Duncan wants to meet us, about an hour after breakfast." He paused to look around the mess tent. More soldiers and several mages were drifting in. The cooks were about to open the line, and the Ash Warriors crowded to the front, giving anyone who got in their way a surly growl. Like dog, like dog-handler. "Breakfast for normal people," Alistair clarified with a conspirational grin. "How about some sparring practice beforehand?"

An excuse to back out of it danced on the tip of Bannon's tongue. But then... he really did want to become better with the sword. Alistair might be bigger and stronger than he, and maybe the 'friendly' human just wanted a chance to pummel someone. Yet, if that were the case, putting it off til later wouldn't do Bannon much good. No, no, better to hit the shem after he'd just stuffed himself to the gills and make him puke. Bannon suppressed a smile. "Sure."

The Warden and the recruit vacated their table. They met Daveth and Jory at the front of the tent, and Alistair delivered their orders to meet Duncan at the alloted time. After that, the two were free to find a quiet corner of the ruins to practice in.

...

Bannon flicked his head to clear his eyes of sweat and lank hair, and focussed on his opponent. Alistair fought with longsword and shield, and if there was one thing that Bannon was learning, it was that he hated fighting against that combination. He couldn't come at the off-side because there was a huge shield protecting the guy. Plus, it happened to make a decent battering weapon. Alistair had held back, but still Bannon had ended up in the dirt a few times. And attacking the weapon side? That was just asking to get skewered.

The elf frowned in concentration. If only he could get around behind his opponent, things would be a lot easier. Of course, there was no way Alistair was going to let that happen. Bannon circled, and the Templar-turned-Grey-Warden shuffled to face him, keeping his knees flexed in a low stance.

Bannon took a couple of half-hearted pokes at him, watching Alistair move his shield to intercept them. If the elf were bigger and stronger, he _might_ be able to hammer on the damned shield til Alistair's arm got tired - or broken. Well, that was never going to happen. Alistair deflected another poke, then lunged with his sword. Bannon parried, more out of a reflexive panic than any skill, and danced back. Alistair, instead of pressing the attack, drew back into the same ready position he started from.

Just then, things clicked for Bannon. He made another lunge for the Warden, and as soon as Alistair braced his feet to catch the impact on his shield, Bannon darted left towards the sword. He smacked the flat of his blade down hard on the Templar's forearm guard, eliciting a yelp. He danced left again; now he was halfway behind Alistair as the human tried to turn to keep up with him.

It was tempting to smack the shem across his unprotected head. Alistair had suggested they forgo helmets so it was easier to see during practice. Of course, that also meant no striking to the head. Bannon suppressed the urge and settled for scoring a few taps on the Warden's armor as they continued to turn. Alistair got annoyed and made a large backhand sweep. Bannon ducked under the blade while bringing his own sword up. The warrior's forearm smacked into the steel. "Ow!" Alistair's arm dropped and he jumped back. "Okay, I give!" He winced. "I need to use that arm later."

"Sorry," Bannon said, lowering his own weapon and straightening up.

"I hate when someone gets around my guard," the former Templar said cheerfully enough. He shouldered his shield onto his back and sheathed his sword. Then he rubbed his forearm.

"I hate trying to get around it," Bannon griped back at him. He sheathed his own sword and brushed some dirt off his backside. He turned as Daveth and Ser Jory strolled over to join them. Apparently, they had caught the last part of the match.

The scruffy rogue gave Bannon an encouraging grin. "You get yourself a second blade, you'd cut him up real good."

"Probably just annoy him twice as fast," the elf said deflectively. Still, he made note of it. He wasn't sure he could parry a big human's sword using just one hand. He grabbed up his helmet and looped it onto a carry-hook on his belt.

Alistair retrieved his own helmet then moved over to a nearby rainbarrel. He set the headgear down, took off his gloves and tossed them into the helmet, then scooped a double handful of water over his head. He shook his hair out vigorously, spraying little droplets over Daveth and Bannon. Jory hung back, out of range. The Warden moved aside to give the elf a turn at the barrel. Bannon splashed his face and slicked his hair back over his head. He dug around in his belt pouch for something to tie it back with.

Daveth said to him, "You're pretty quick. I probably would've lost my head on some of those moves."

"That's not being quick," Bannon said; "that's being short."

Daveth chuckled amicably, but Ser Jory let out a braying laugh. The guy must have a fondness for short elf jokes. Bannon ignored him.

"Short _and_ quick does have its advantages," Alistair added.

Unlike, say, big and fat. Bannon didn't say it out loud. Daveth, however, couldn't pass up the opportunity to insult the knight.

"Lay off!" Ser Jory snapped, reddening. "I am not fat, you stupid guttersnipe!"

"Hey, hey!" Alistair intervened, stepping halfway between the two men. "Take it easy."

"'Twas all in good fun, ser knight," Daveth said jauntily. "No harm meant. I'm sure Bannon doesn't mind if we call him short." He shot the elf a wink.

Bannon put on his most sincere face. "Actually, I'm very tall for my height."

Daveth and Alistair chuckled. The rotund knight from Highever just scowled. "It's well past time we were to meet Duncan, isn't it?" He stomped off towards the Wardens' section of the camp.

Alistair turned to the other two. "Try to get along, all right? Our lives are going to be depending on one another." He didn't wait for an answer, but set out after Ser Jory.

"Absolutely, ser," Daveth said. Then he lowered his voice conspirationally to Bannon. "Can't be attacking a man who isn't armed with a sense of humor, now can we?"

Bannon snorted dismissively. "So how do you handle a guy with a sword and shield?" he asked as they followed the others.

"Run away and shoot him," the rogue replied.

"Oh, that's helpful!"

"But true! In fact, it works on a great variety of opponents." Daveth began to wax philosophical. "The more you can hurt your target and not be in range to get hurt, the better!"


	4. The Mission

_(no warnings)_

Duncan met them at the Wardens' watchfire. His whitened armor was cleaned of road dust, and the thick cloth skirting had been freshly washed. He almost looked like a tight-laced military campaigner, except for the roguish gold earring in one ear and his too-long hair tied back in a queue. As usual, none of the other veteran Grey Wardens were in evidence. Bannon began to think maybe it wasn't just him they didn't like. They must be one surly lot, he thought. He'd probably have more fun joining the Templars. His luck lately had been horrible.

"Alistair, a moment please," the Warden Commander said quietly. The two took a few steps away from the recruits. "I've had complaints from the mage quarter," Duncan said.

"That wasn't my fault," Alistair said quickly. "The Reverend Mother ambushed me. She knows the mages know I'm a Templar - ex-Templar, anyway. She did that on purpose."

"She told you to sass the mage, did she?" Duncan inquired, pointedly raising a brow.

"Uhh..." Alistair scratched the back of his head, looking away guiltily.

Bannon said, "That guy was asking for it." The two humans turned to look at him. Well, if they wanted a real private conversation, they were going to have to go further away! "Look," the elf explained, "Alistair was just supposed to deliver a message, right? That mage gave him all kinds of grief about it."

"He did," Alistair asserted.

Duncan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I don't care 'who started it.'" He looked up and fixed them all - from Alistair to Jory - with a stern glare. "This is a Blight. And don't let the camp rumors fool you, it _is_ a true Blight. The darkspawn are a greater enemy than any other; we _must_ stand together in this. Whether mages or Templars, elves or humans, nobles or commoners; we have to put aside our petty differences. As Grey Wardens, you especially are expected to put aside these prejudices and defend everyone equally." His words had a biting strength to them.

"I apologize," Alistair said, ducking his head sheepishly. "You're right. I should have handled myself better. I am sorry." He squashed a bit of inoffenseive dirt with his toe.

"It's all right," Duncan said more softly. "Now, let's get down to why we are here today." He faced the recuits squarely, and they gathered closer to attend his words. "I'm sending you four out into the Wilds."

"Isn't it dangerous out there?" Ser Jory asked.

Daveth glanced sidewise at him. "I think that's the point."

"Yes, it is," Duncan agreed. "You three haven't experienced combat together as a group. It will be best if you do so with small clusters of enemies, rather than on the battlefield when the armies clash." Jory frowned, but said nothing. Daveth didn't seem to care much about anything. Duncan had saved his life, and the former thief seemed content to let the man throw it away again, if he wanted. As for Bannon, he actually looked forward to getting out of this human-filled camp and meeting some creatures he could kill, instead of having to hold back. It would be a relief.

"Alistair will be observing how well you do; don't expect him to do all the fighting for you," Duncan continued.

"Just run out and kill a bunch of darkspawn, ser?" Jory asked. "And come back?"

Duncan shook his head. "I have two tasks for you to accomplish while you are out there. First, you will acquire three vials of darkspawn blood - one for each recruit." He bent and retrieved said vials from a satchel. He handed one to each of them. The vials were made of stone, not glass, to withstand the rigors of the battlefield.

Bannon looked his over and tucked it into a pouch on his belt that held other tools and small necessities. "Seems like one darkspawn ought to have more than enough blood for this," he muttered.

"You should take it from a darkspawn you have slain yourself," Duncan told them. "You will know the right one."

"Is this part of the ritual, then?" Daveth asked.

"Yes."

"And you're going to tell us-?"

"Absolutely nothing about it," Duncan finished, sounding weary of this line from the rogue.

"Absolutely nothing about it," Daveth said, almost at the same time. The two humans exchanged a pointed look. Daveth blinked and looked away first. "All right, all right," he grumbled.

"Your secondary mission, but no less important," Duncan went on as if there were no interruption, "is to search for the ruins of an ancient Warden stronghold." The recruits' ears perked up. This was an unusual assignment. "We've recently uncovered documents about the outpost here in the Korcari Wilds. It was abandoned a few centuries ago, when the Wardens became very few in number and no longer had the manpower to maintain it. However, there were treaties stored there; treaties granting aid to the Grey Wardens in time of Blight, signed by the powers of this realm. There are treaties with the humans of Ferelden of course, and also dwarves of Orzammar, the Dalish, and the Circle of Magi."

"Some papers a few centuries old, in overgrown ruins?" Bannon asked derisively. "Like trying to find Andraste's ashes in a desert, ainnit?"

"I'm sure there's plenty interesting to find in an old Warden outpost," Daveth said, winking greedily. Bannon rolled his eyes at him.

Duncan said, "The treaties were of utmost importance. They were very likely sealed in a vault, or magically protected, or both. The documents describe a chest they were housed in. It will bear the symbols of the Grey Wardens' order." He nodded to his protege'. "Alistair will recognize it if he sees it."

"If I see it; that's the trick," Alistair said, nibbling on his inner lip. "How are we going to find this outpost if it isn't there any more?"

"The ruins will be overgrown, but they will be large and not likely to be missed."

Daveth cocked his head. "Begging your pardon, but I grew up not far from here. These places are full of ancient Tevinter ruins. A farmer can't till his field without turning up some old coins, a few buttons, maybe a belt buckle. And lots of old stone statue bits."

"These ruins will be newer than that," Duncan replied. "And not Tevinter in design."

"If you were an architect instead of a carpenter," Daveth muttered to Bannon, "this'd be easy."

The elf shook his head and asked, "Didn't these documents have anything useful? Like a map?"

"No, unfortunately. But they were apparently east of here, perhaps a bit southeast. You should head in that direction."

"That's as good a direction as any," Alistair said cheerfully.

Duncan gave the recruits another of his dark looks. Perhaps he didn't like the way they seemed doubtful about their chances of finding the treaties. "Do you understand my orders as I've given them to you?" he asked with a cold edge.

"Absolutely, ser," Ser Jory said tightly.

"Kill some darkspawn, collect some blood, dig around in old ruins for treaties," Bannon said. He shrugged. "Should be a walk in the park."

"Be sure you are back before nightfall," the Commander warned them. He turned to the younger Warden. "Bring them home safely, Alistair."

"I will," he replied solemnly.

...

The foursome turned and moved away from the watchfire. "I can't believe this," Ser Jory growled. "More tests? Haven't I already proven myself worthy when Duncan chose me as a recruit?"

"Relax, ser knight," Daveth said smoothly. "Like Bannon said, it will be a walk in the park."

"You just want to rob some old Warden tombs," the Highever knight snarled back.

Alistair had to step in again. "All right, that's enough. We should get ready to head out, finish up any business, and then we'll meet... there." He pointed. "By that bit of wall near the gate."

"Very good, then." Daveth took off like a shot.

"In fifteen minutes!" Alistair called out pointedly after him. The former Templar sighed to himself.

Bannon hurried after Daveth and caught up with him. "Hey, you don't have a spare bow, do you?"

"Nope." The rogue shot him a sidewise glance. "And don't be eyeing Melinda, here." He reached back and caressed the carved bowstave.

"Well, if you get killed and eaten by darkspawn, can I have your stuff?"

Daveth stopped and chuckled. "Of course, my friend!" He grinned wickedly. "After all, I won't be needing it then. And," he clapped Bannon on the shoulder, "should you perish, I'll make free with all your stuff, as well!"

"Yeah, all right," Bannon agreed, slipping his shoulder out of the rogue's grasp. "But my money is going back to my family."

For a moment, Daveth frowned thoughtfully at him. "You really have a family?"

"Yeah, why?"

The human shrugged. "I'll have a family, someday." He shook off his melancholy mein. "Oh look," he said irrepressibly, "there goes one of my chances now! Cassandra...!" He trotted off after one of the women soldiers.

Bannon shook his head. He turned and retraced his steps back to the Warden tents to look for Alistair. He found the human in his small tent at the end of the row.

"Excuse me, ser?" Bannon leaned down to peer through the open flap.

Alistair looked up from the pair of socks he'd been pulling on. "What did I tell you about that 'ser' stuff?" he scolded affably.

"Sorry, uh, Alistair." Bannon collected himself a moment. "I hate to bother you," he said obsequiously, "especially since I haven't paid you back yet from last time, but I was wondering if I could borrow some more money? I don't have a bow yet. And, well, being an elf and all; I'd feel much more comfortable with one." He didn't mention that there wasn't anywhere in an alienage to be shooting bows, so he was probably slapdash with one at best. But that 'running away and shooting' was sounding like a really good strategy about now.

"Oh." The human frowned, pausing in thought. "I actually don't have any more money," he confessed. "But... I think I know where we can borrow a bow." He finished changing his socks, and pulled on his boots. The socks from this morning (Bannon didn't want to speculate on how soggy they were) got tossed into a pile somewhere in the dark depths of the tent. Was that... writing stitched on the socks? Maker's Mercy, the guy had personalized, monogrammed _socks_!

Bannon backed up as the human jumped to his feet and pushed out of the tent. It only took him a few minutes to find another of the Wardens and borrow a bow and quiver. Bannon adjusted it to fit with the harness for his sword, and to not tangle the string and blade as he tried to draw either one. As he did so, he followed Alistair to their appointed waiting spot. None of the others were there, so the two sat perched on the broken wall, watching the ceaselsess activity of the camp.

"Have you ever seen a darkspawn?" Alistair asked him. Bannon shook his head. The young Warden's gaze unfocussed as he thought back. "I wasn't prepared for how monstrous they were. When I first fought them. You'd think... I don't know - they walk upright, they wear armor and use weapons, you'd think there'd be something human about them." He shook his head, lowering his eyes to the dusty ground. "But there's nothing. They don't speak or have a language. Even an animal has some reason; an animal wouldn't attack an armed man without regard for its own life."

"And the darkspawn would? They're not intelligent?"

"It's not that they're not intelligent." Alistair stroked his little beard patch in concentration. "They're cunning; they sometimes use strategy. It's more like they're driven."

"Basically, you're telling me they're insane."

The Templar nodded, his eyes lighting up. "That's it, exactly!"

Bannon threw his hands up. "Great, so instead of slow, stupid enemies, they're berserk."

"More or less." Alistair grinned sheepishly. "It's not that bad, really. I just wanted to forewarn you. Even if they look remotely human, don't hesitate to kill them. They're not like us at all."

The elf nodded. "I'll keep that in mind." Bannon wasn't worried; he had no problem whatsoever with slaughtering shems.

After another minute or two, the human said, "You want to lay bets on which one of the others gets here first?"

"Jory," Bannon replied promptly. "Daveth is trying to make a family with as many women as he can before he leaves."

Alistair chuckled. "Okay, not taking that one." He brushed it off with a wave of his hand. "Though," he continued thoughtfully, "it does take Ser Knight much longer to get all his armor on straight without his personal valet to help dress him."

It was Bannon's turn to chuckle as he shifted his weight on the worn stone. "You'd know more about that than me."

"Me?" Alistair shot him a quizzical frown.

"Well, yeah." Was it a big secret or something? Bannon couldn't see how, so he just shrugged and said, "Aren't you highborn?"

"Me?" Alistair's brows shot up further. "You think _I'm_ a nobleman?"

Now a puzzled look crossed Bannon's face. "Aren't you?"

"No!" Alistair half-laughed and half-coughed, shaking his head. "I'm not any nobleman! My mother and I were servants at Redcliffe castle."

"What about... you didn't you say you had dogs?"

"I was the kennel-boy!"

"Seriously?" Bannon gave him a scrutinizing look. He wasn't usually so wrong in his impression of people.

"Yes, seriously." Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "Whatever made you think I was noble born?"

Bannon shrugged, still trying to puzzle that out. "I don't know, just the way you look? I mean, how you carry yourself."

"Oh, that's just Templar training." Alistair relaxed a bit and made a dismissive gesture. "We used to have this instructor, Miss Cattiwick." He stiffened his spine and thrust his chest out exageratedly. In stern falsetto, he said, "A good Tem-plah always has good pos-chah!"

With an appreciative nod, Bannon chuckled. "But aren't noble brats usually the ones given to Templar training? How does a kennel boy end up becoming a knight?"

"Well, when my mother died, I was an orphan." He frowned. "Arl Eamon, the lord of Redcliffe, saw to it that I was cared for. And it was decided it would be best if I were given over to the Chantry for training." His frown deepened as he went on.

Bannon chewed his lip thoughtfully. The lord of the manor taking interest in a serving girl's boy? He knew what that meant: the lord had probably taken an inordiante amount of 'interest' in the serving girl. Alistair was nearly glowering now, so Bannon innocuously asked, "What about your father?"

"Oh, he died in childbirth," the Warden shot back glibly. Right, subject to be avoided, there.

"And you have that upper class accent," Bannon said, switching back to more neutral ground.

"You think I have an accent?" The elf nodded at him. "Well, I think it's more of a Redcliffe accent than anything," Alistair said. "If I were really a nobleman, my posture would include me sticking my nose up in the air." He proceeded to demonstrate. "And I'd be talking like this..." Here, he took on an arch, vaulted tone, precicely clipping his consonants and thoroughly nasalizing his vowels: "I say, old chap! Fetch me my tea and crumpets - toodle-pip! I saaay, the servants are rebelling, and the peasants are positively re_vol_ting, wot wot?"

Bannon snickered and Alistair was about to join in when a stentorian voice rang out behind them. "If the Grey Wardens have nothing better to do," the general thundered, "the army could use some help digging latrines."

Both Alistair and Bannon ducked their heads like guilty schoolboys caught hiding a frog in the teacher's desk. They scrambled off the wall and stood respectfully facing Teyrn Loghain. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, a veteran campaigner, yet unbowed by the weight of his massive plate armor. His hair was dark and worn long, held back from his face by warrior's braids. His eyes, too, were dark, and sharp as steel blades.

"No, ser," Bannon said swifly.

"We're just waiting for our comrades, ser," Alistair added, his head so low he was nearly bowing to the general; "before going out on a mission, ser."

Loghain glowered at him. "And you," the teyrn said in a low, dangerous voice, "had better remember your _place_."

Alistair paled. "Y-yes, ser."

With a departing scowl for good measure, the general stalked off.

It was a full minute before the two dared to breathe again. "That is one scary guy," Bannon said in awe.

"Tell me about it," Alistair replied, giving himself a shake that was mostly involuntary shiver.

"That was him, right?" Bannon asked, peering after the tall human. "Teyrn Loghain, the Hero of River Dane? The High General of the King's Army?"

"That's him," Alistair confirmed, his voice still dry.

"Thank the Maker he's on our side." The elf began to relax again, though he noticed tension still in his companion. "He's going out front, right? One glare and the darkspawn will drop dead of fright." He mimed a wide-eyed scowling glare of doom.

Alistair chuckled gamely, though it sounded a little forced.

"So is it true what they say about him?" Bannon asked, drawing the Templar on.

"I don't know. What do they say?"

"That he single-handedly freed Ferelden from Orlesian tyranny? That he killed an entire company of chevaliers with one blow?" Bannon watched the human. He was still staring blankly off after Loghain. "That he ripped off the Orlesian general's head and - eh, you know - the rest?"

"Mm." Alistair nodded distractedly. "Yeah, that's all true."

"Is it true he ate the captain of the chevaliers, armor and all, and spit out seven mighty Ferelden swords?"

Now Alistair rolled his eyes. "All right, now you're having me on." He gave the elf a serious look, only slightly ruined by a muscle twitch here and there as he tried to keep a straight face. Bannon just gave him the wide-eyed innocent stare until the human couldn't handle it any more. "That armor he's got on?" Alistair clarified. "_That's_ the armor he took from the chevalier captain. Since it doesn't even have toothmarks on it, that's clearly _not_ true."

"Ohhhh." Bannon poked his tongue into his cheek and waited a beat. "Must've been the chevalier's _horse_ he ate, then. And it's armor."

"Now that, I can believe!" Alistair finally cracked a grin, and Bannon grinned back. "You know," Alistair said, serious after a moment; "you're all right."

"You're all right, too," the elf told him.

"As opposed to five minutes ago, when you thought I was some stuck up nobleman's brat."

Bannon winced. "Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"Don't worry about it." Alistair waved it off with a grin. It seemed nothing could shake his affable nature for long. "I hope Daveth and Ser Jory show up soon, or I know who _will_ be digging latrines tonight."

Bannon snickered, but he doubted the young Warden would follow through with the threat. He was far too good-natured. Still, he was pleasant enough, and had a ready sense of humor. Maybe things were looking up.

...

Shortly thereafter, Daveth came around one of the command tents and headed towards them. Ser Jory followed. The two were engaged in conversation.

"I thought charity was a knightly virtue," Daveth was saying over his shoulder. "Or is that 'chivalry'? I get those mixed up."

"Cowardice in the face of the enemy is against the Code of Honor," Jory replied heatedly.

"You're talking about that deserter?" Alistair asked. "The one being held prisoner over by the hospice?"

"Yes, ser," the knight answered. To Daveth, he said, "It's bad enough they keep him lingering on, without you to torment him."

"I wasn't tormenting him," Daveth explained. He clapped a leather helmet onto his head and tugged at the chinstraps as the group started heading for the bridge. "He asked for a bit of food and water, and I obliged."

"They ought to just hang the poor sod and be done with it."

Bannon put on his own helmet, making sure his bangs were all pushed back under it to keep them from getting in his eyes. He tugged his short ponytail to settle the leather tie under the back rim. "They ought to tie him out in front of the army when the darkspawn attack," he interjected. He caught Ser Jory's and Alistair's winces.

"That's a bit extreme," Alistair opined. "Don't you think?"

Bannon shrugged. "He ran away because he was afraid to fight them, right? Afraid he'd get killed. Make it more sure they'll get him if he runs, then people wouldn't run," he pointed out. He tugged the chinstrap of his helmet tight and shook his head sharply to test the snugness. It didn't slide around on his head, nor chafe his eartips. It was actually quite comfortable. The front was open, so it didn't cut off his field of vision, except a short brim at the top. Sound was a bit muffled, but not as badly as he'd expected.

Daveth grimaced at his comment. "He says he isn't a deserter."

Ser Jory snorted. Bannon said, "Oh, he's innocent, is he?" His tone was clearly skeptical.

"He says he was merely skulking around," Daveth pointed out reasonably.

"Oh, clear proof of innocence right there," Alistair quipped.

The group moved out onto the ancient bridge. The morning sun had crested a cloudbank and was glaring down on them. Bannon was grateful that the helmet's brim shaded his eyes somewhat. Meanwhile, Daveth continued his defense of the imprisoned soldier.

"There could be any number of legitimate reasons for him to be sneaking around camp." The rogue ignored his companions' sounds of disbelief. "Maybe he was off to visit a lady friend."

Alistair rolled his eyes heavenward. Ser Jory said, "Always on about that, aren't you?"

"Well, not all of us are so fortunate to be married, ser knight."

The Warden recruits moved to the side of the bridge as a patrol came in from the far end. The soldiers looked footsore and grouchy. "Well, we managed to scare off a few birds," one muttered. "Nothing else can get up here; this run is a big waste of time."

"Give it a rest, Taggert," another replied. "I reckon the Hero of River Dane knows a thing or two about battle. If he says patrol the ridge, we patrol it."

"If he said to wear your mum's Feastday dress and prance about to distract the darkspawn, would you?"

The soldiers laughed, and their discussion faded as they moved on. In the quiet of their wake, Bannon said reasonably, "If he were sneaking off to see some woman, then she ought to come forward to save him from execution."

"Maybe she can't," Daveth countered. "If she's married to some other bloke or something."

"Not worth letting your lover die." The elf shrugged. "Unless she didn't love him so much."

"All right, maybe letting on would be worse than death for him." Daveth warmed up to his constructed melodrama. "Imagine if she was married to the guy's commander. A commander could make a soldier's life hell. Put on the worst patrols, leading the most dangerous missions, not getting sent timely reinforcements..."

"Still sounds less dangerous than a hanging," Bannon said.

"Well..." Daveth deflated somewhat. He couldn't really argue with that. "At any rate, I've performed a good deed, and I feel justly rewarded." He winked at Bannon.

The elf had no idea what _that_ was supposed to mean. The prisoner was chained in a hanging cage with nothing more than a breechclout left to him. He didn't imagine the guy had any money hidden about his person. Bannon just shook his head.


	5. The Wilds  Darkspawn

_Warnings: foul language_

The foursome continued down the ridge, past the Tower of Ishal, which Alistair said was closed off due to some structural unsoundness. Well, more like a big chunk of the side was missing from part of it, one third of the way up. They descended into the ravine and passed the guard post set up at an opening in a thick pallisade wall. Beyond this was the camp of the army proper. Rows of tents were laid out, with large avenues between them to allow the army to pour out of the camp and onto the battlefield when needed. Plain canvas tents, some as long as a feast hall, stood nearby, ready to serve as hospitals to the critically wounded. Stockpiles of spare weapons and ammunition were stored neatly at intervals. In the distance, the smaller tents of the soldiers could be seen, grouped by the devices and colours of the Bann or Arl they served. These distinct sections continued up into the hillsides on the northern edge. The whole camp crawled with activity, and was as loud and dusty as any city.

The Wardens travelled through the central avenue, which was tramped down by countless boots and hooves and paws. Bannon kept glancing up at the hills, trying to espy the Denerim contingent under Bann Urien's flag. Oh yes, it was here. It was so large, it snaked up one long hillside and another set of red and orange tents perched on the next hill overlooking it. That must be where the captains and the arl himself resided. Bannon looked away.

At last they came to the southern pallisade, which was made up of smaller logs than the first one. This wall was a defense of the army's back side. It wasn't as fortified as the west end of the ravine, where the darkspawn batallions had been throwing themselves, but it was carefully patrolled, in case the creatures decided to use any surprise strategy. So far, they hadn't.

Alistair identified himself and his charges to the guards at the gate, and the Wardens were let past. Beyond the wall, cleared ground sloped down and away. Alistair put on his own helmet as the three recruits scanned the treeline that was a bowshot away. "Well, we're here," he said. "The Korcari Wilds. Be on your guard." He gripped his sword and rattled it in its scabbard, making sure it was lose, but not drawing it.

Daveth pulled out his bow and nocked an arrow, and Bannon followed suit. The two looked at each other, then at Alistair.

"Don't look at me," the young Warden said. "I'm supposed to be observing you. Pretend I'm not here."

"Quick," Bannon said dryly; "no one's looking, we can make our escape."

"Ha-ha," Alistair said back, just as dryly.

"Which way is southeast?" Daveth asked Bannon. The elf shrugged at him.

Jory rolled his eyes. "Don't you know anything?"

"We're city boys," the rogue protested. "If there's not a road sign..."

"There's a pathway right through there." Jory pointed. "You two should go on ahead so you can shoot anything you see without skewering us."

The elf and rogue shared a look, then shrugged and headed towards the path. There were wagon-wheel marks, so this must be a route the army scouts took when foraging in the Wilds. Bannon kept an eye on the trees, wondering if this were deep forest enough for bears to live here. Not that any would roam so close to the camp. Or so he figured.

The trees were thinned on either side of the pathway, where woodcutters had harvested them. After several yards, the path turned around a small declivity and passed a hill. There, it opened up into a swampy field, dotted with scrawny little trees. The noise of the camp fell away, and all was quiet, except a few inquisitive chirps from insects.

Suddenly, something shot out of one of the bushes and streaked across the recruits' path. Bannon brought his bow up and fired a wild shot at it, completely missing the squirrel as it scampered over a fallen log and up one of the saplings. Daveth jumped nearly out of his skin. "What are you doing?" He held his arrow against the bow with one forefinger and pressed his free hand to his chest. "You just shot at a squirrel!"

Bannon felt his eartips burning in embarassment. Luckily, no one could see under his helmet. "Hey, them's good eatin'," he countered. He turned away to retrieve his arrow so they couldn't see his face.

"We're not out here for hunting," Ser Jory griped from behind him.

Daveth followed the elf on the arrow's trail. "Do you actually know how to use that thing?"

"Of course I do!"

"What do you shoot at in an alienage, exactly?" the rogue prodded.

Bannon crouched and pulled the arrow out from where it had slid under the strands of a patch of tall grass. "Pumpkins," he muttered. He prodded some dirt off the arrow's head and, since it seemed none the worse for wear, put it back on the bowstring.

Ser Jory and Alistair walked up closer to the two. "Did he say pumpkins?" Jory asked.

"Hey, darkspawn are bigger than a pumpkin, aren't they?" Bannon argued heatedly. He also didn't mention the alienage children's tradition of carving shem noble heads onto the pumpkins as targets, but he was thinking about it right now, oh yes.

Alistair drew his upper lip through his teeth in a moment of doubt. "Maybe you should make sure not to be shooting past us. When we get into the thick of some fighting," he said charitably.

"I promise, I won't shoot you in the ass," Bannon said. Though... well, now he was thinking about _that_. He shook himself. "I'm not stupid." They just stared at him with skepticism written across their faces. "Look, I've come in second or third in a couple of tournaments. I can handle a bow."

Daveth was the first to cut him some slack. "Come on; he says he can shoot, he can shoot."

Ser Jory sniffed. "You two are still going out in front."

"We still only have your word that you can swing that ox-killer," the rogue pointed out.

The knight reddened. "I have seven tournament championships to my name!" he roared.

"And archery tournaments aren't good enough for me?" Bannon snarled. Who did that damned shem think he was?

"All right, calm down!" Yet again, Alistair tried to be the thread of reason in this group. But he sounded frightfully close to snapping. "The darkspawn are going to have an easy time of it, if you keep up this senseless bickering. We're could get killed out here, unless you missed that point."

"I should be the leader," Ser Jory said reasonably, firmly. "I have the highest rank." Bannon didn't reply, he just turned and headed across the field where he could see more wagon ruts. "Where are you going, elf?"

That tore it! That one little condescending word - you elf: servant, beggar, slave, lowlife. Bannon froze, his shoulders tense; he was literaly bristling.

Daveth caught up with him. "Hey, take it easy," the rogue told him in a low voice. "Alistair's right. We have a job to do, and it'll be easier with someone giving orders. Ser Knight can do it; I don't envy him."

Bannon half turned. "He said we were going in front." He bit down on his words to try to keep his anger from escaping control. "I'm _going_ - Did you hear that?" A low sound penetrated his consciousness. He couldn't place it for a moment; it seemed out of place. "Sounds like a dog."

Alistair and Jory marched up to them; the knight opened his mouth to retort. Bannon raised his bow in a flash and let fly into the bushes. "What are you _doing_?" Jory screamed. The elf didn't have time to answer as several wolves sprang out of the underbrush and charged the group.

Daveth cursed and raised his own bow; Bannon was already firing a second arrow. They managed to fell two of the wolves before the beasts were on them. Daveth strategically retreated while Jory and Alistair drew their weapons. In a panic, Bannon dropped his bow and pulled out his sword. The fight was chaotic and bloody. Jory swung his heavy blade like a scythe, cutting through fur and flesh. Bannon backpedalled away from him and scooted behind Alistair. The Templar had a shield; that seemed like a really good idea about now. Claws scrabbled on the metal as wolves threw themselves against it. They began to swarm around Alistair's off side, but Bannon was there, striking down at them like a butcher at the block. Snarls turned to yelps of pain. And then, growls of rage.

Teeth flashed, and Bannon struck out; metal crunched against thick bone and was deflected. The wolf landed hard on its front paws, bleeding muzzle low. Bannon swung hard, aiming to crack its spine. The sword bit deep and the beast collapsed, still snarling, bloody saliva dripping from its jaws, but unable to attack. The elf yanked on his sword, momentarily vulnerable. A deep-throated growl gave him little warning; one of the wolves leapt over its fallen comrade, its fangs aiming for his neck. Instinctively he threw his free arm up, barely intercepting the bite. The momentum threw the elf on the ground under the animal, and it began savaging him furiuosly. "Aaaigh!" he screamed, kicking uselessly. "Get it off, get it off, GETITOFF!"

In a splash of hot red, the wolf was torn away, ripping pieces of Bannon's arm guard off and some of his flesh with it. He couldn't see, but he rolled away and got to his knees. He shook blood out of his eyes, blinking furiously. Where was his sword? He grabbed it and pulled for dear life. As he got to his feet, the ringing in his ears faded, and as he looked around frantically, he saw all the wolves were down. Ser Jory was just pulling his sword out of the carcass of the one that had been trying to rip Bannon's arm off.

The elf gulped for breath. "Thanks." He cradled his torn arm against his stomach. The shock was wearing off, and it hurt like hell.

The wolf with the severed spine snarled; its front paws dug uselessly at the dirt. Alistair went over to it, a grim look on his face. His bloody sword flashed down on the beast's neck, and with a pitiful yelp, the animal went still. "Poor bastard. Check on Daveth," the Warden told Jory. The knight nodded and went to see to the archer, who'd been bitten on the leg. Alistair gently tugged at Bannon's arm to look at it.

"I hate dogs," Bannon said, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"They're not dogs, they're wolves," Alistair said. Carefully, he unbuckled the one strap remaining on Bannon's arm guard and pulled the leather away. He pushed the elf down so they could crouch on the ground while he took out a canteen to wash away the blood and peel the remains of Bannon's sleeve off his arm. "It's not that bad," the man assured him.

"What happened to rational animals? That don't attack armed men?" Bannon's voice was shaking, and he wished it would quit that. Come to think of it, so was his hand, so he didn't try sheathing his sword just yet.

"It's the Taint," the Warden answered grimly as he worked. The human looked up into Bannon's stricken face. "Don't worry, you won't get infected from this." He produced a wrapped poultice and tied it to Bannon's arm with some bandages. Almost immediately, the pain ebbed. Then he strapped the armguard over the bandages, replacing the torn strap with another strip of cloth. Alistair fished around in another pouch and produced a dried plant stem. "Chew on this, it will help with the healing."

Bannon took it and pressed it between his back teeth. It was slightly bitter and slightly minty, not too unpleasant. He took a breath and stood up. He felt better, and was able to get the swordblade into the sheathe on his back with a little concentration. Then he looked around for his bow, hoping it wasn't broken. Plus more than half his arrows had spilled out when he'd been on the ground. Now he had to shove stinking wolf carcasses aside to find them. "It drools, it growls, it bites; it's a dog," he muttered to himself.

Alistair went to check on Ser Jory and Daveth. The latter was up and about, limping slightly. He bent to help Bannon without being asked. "Walk in the park, eh?" He grinned, chewing noisily on his own bit of medicinal plant. Bannon just shot him a look in answer. He rolled the stalk around in his mouth to the other side and bit down on it again. It leaked juice that was making the back of his tongue go numb. He chewed a bit harder, and indeed, his arm stopped throbbing.

Alistair looked down at the dead animals. "This is what a Blight really is," he said solemnly. "Animals can get the Taint from eating Tainted meat, but they'd have to be really desperately starving to even look at it. When darkspawn mass in an area, the very ground becomes sick. The plants begin to blacken and die, and then a mist gathers; a miasma of evil." The others watched him as he stared unseeing at the carcasses. "The Blight isn't the army of darkspawn, it's the Taint they carry with them; infecting the land, the animals, the people."

"If one of these darkspawn bite us," Jory asked nervously, "we'll get the Taint?"

"Not one little bite, no," Alistair said quietly. He looked up at the knight. "The Taint is strongest in the darkspawn blood. Even when you kill them, the ground where there blood was spilled sickens and dies. That battlefield, outside Ostagar? Before this is over, there will be enough Tainted blood spilled there to make that a barren desert for several generations." The Warden looked saddened. Jory's eyes widened and he took an unconscious step back. Alistair added, "Don't worry. Grey Wardens are immune to the Taint. That's one reason we are so important in combating the darkspawn." He smiled slightly, shaking off his morbid cast and regaining some of his humorous nature. "Well, then! Shall we see about slaying us some real darkspawn?"

"And collecting Tainted blood?" Jory added distastefully.

Daveth grinned at him. "Just like picking poison berries! As long as you don't eat any..." The rogue nocked another arrow on his bow, then looked expectantly at Ser Jory. "Whereaway, ser knight?"

"We'll keep going," Jory answered. He gestured towards the wagon tracks. "Follow the path."

He didn't sound all that confident, but Bannon had to admit, he was handy in a fight. He and Daveth went a few paces ahead, bows at the ready.

...

The Wilds were not a flat plane, like a city or fields of farms. The land was rough and sloped up and down. It was as if a giant clawed hand had raked through the earth. In places, huge piles of rock and slabs of stone formed impassable mounds. Trees clung together in tight copses, bristling with branches like a formation of spears. Streams and gullies trickled aimlessly between patches of standing water; here a good-sized pond, there an overly-large puddle. Daveth had been right about the ruins, too. Chunks of great stone arches rose up in rows out of the ground, like the picked-clean ribs of ancient monsters. They had the Tevinter style, like the buttresses holding up the Imperial Highway.

The group followed the worn path as it continued in a generally southeastern direction. As Bannon and Daveth came around a bend, they stopped short, spying something in the grass ahead. At first, Bannon wasn't sure what it was, but it didn't look natural. It was gleaming crimson within the green palette of the Wilds. As they approached, he could see it was a body. Definitely human, and wearing the chainmail typical of guards and soldiers of Ferelden. A cloud of flies rose from it.

"This can't be good," Daveth said as Alistair and Jory caught up with the two bowmen.

Alistair said, "This must be the missing patrol they were talking about in camp. Look there." He pointed further along the path and sure enough, there was an overturned wagon and more bloody corpses. The four companions fanned out, looking for the attackers, but whatever had happened here was long over and done.

Bannon crouched by another body and waved away the flies. He tugged at the pouches on the soldier's belt, and slipped a few coins and trinkets into his own. Then he moved on to another nearby. This fellow had a second pouch tucked into the first. Bannon untied it and prodded the neck open. He wrinkled his nose at the ashes inside. Probably that legendary "Ashes of Andraste" cure. The pouchstring had a bit of parchment tucked into it. The elf tugged that free and opened it.

_Gazerath is a benevolent spirit of the lake._ He read. _Sprinkle the ashes of the dead at the outcropping overlooking the dome. In honor of his pact with his beloved mortal woman, the Spirit will grant one wish._

Bannon shrugged and tucked the pouch into his belt. It sounded ridiculous, but out here in the Wilds, who knew? According to the stories, this place was thick with magic. He got up to move on to the next body, when Ser Jory barked at him: "What are you doing?"

"Checking for survivors," the elf replied smoothly. He didn't stop to look up.

Daveth choked down a snort. "Good idea," the rogue said. "I'll check over here."

The knight frowned at both of them. "Survivors, my foot! You just want to steal from them! It's obvious they're all dead!"

Just then a drawn-out groan came from the vicininty of the wagon. One of the bloody corpses dragged himself out from under broken boards. "Over... here," the soldier gasped.

"Well," Alistair said to Ser Jory; "he's not as dead as he looks, is he?"

The Warden went to help the fallen soldier, and Jory followed, frowning. Bannon looked across at Daveth. The rogue looked just as surprised as he felt. Then both shrugged and returned to "checking for survivors."

"We're Grey Wardens," Alistair told the soldier. "Where are you hurt? Here..." He unslung his pack and produced a vial of red liquid. "Drink this; it's a healing draught from the mages."

"Captain Mallon," the man replied, gratefully accepting the potion. "Thank the Maker you're here. I'm not that bad off... most of this isn't mine," he gasped, speaking of the blood covering him. "My leg..."

Jory took some more bandages from Alistair's kit and started binding the man's shin. "What happened?" he asked.

"Darkspawn," the soldier spit, with a wince. "Took us by surprise. They came up out of the ground; appeared out of nowhere. We took a couple down, but..." He shook his head. "They were too strong."

"Darkspawn did this?" Jory looked around nervously. He gave the bandages one more tug and knotted them quickly. He stood up. "They took out this whole patrol." There were nearly a dozen men here. All dead, but one. Jory licked his lips in fear.

Alistair helped Mallon to stand. The captain clung to him a moment, pressing a hand to an oozing wound in his side. Gingerly, he placed weight on his wounded leg, and in a moment he was standing firm. He looked at the blood on his gauntlet. Compared to the dry crimson stains, there was barely any wet red. "That healing potion seems to have done the trick. Did anyone else...?"

Bannon and Daveth, having finished their rounds joined them. Both shook their heads.

"Damn," Captain Mallon swore silently, his head bowed for the loss of his former comrades.

"What are we doing out here?" Ser Jory insisted. "We could be killed by these darkspawn at any moment!"

"Calm down, ser knight," Alistair said placatingly. "We'll be all right as long as we're careful."

"Careful?" A sheen of sweat covered Jory's round face. "These men were careful! They're still dead. A whole patrol taken out! What can the four of us do against that?" His eyes darted to each of them. Bannon folded his arms. Didn't this shem say that cowardice in the face of the enemy was against his code or something? "I'm not a coward, all right," Jory said firmly, as if reading the words from Bannon's expression. "This just seems excessively dangerous. The whole darkspawn army could be behind those trees for all we know!"

"Listen!" Alistair insisted. He looked at each recruit in turn, holding their attention. "Know this: all Grey Wardens can sense darkspawn. It's another advantage we have in fighting them. As long as I'm here with you, we won't be taken by surprise. And believe me, if we come anywhere near a large group, I will _definitely_ tell you we should be heading in the other direction."

"There, see, ser knight?" Daveth said, smiling; "As long as we don't let anything happen to Alistair, we're good as gold." Ser Jory shut his mouth firmly, but said nothing. He looked away, scanning the area for enemies.

Alistair turned to the soldier. "They way behind us is clear," he said. "Do you need help getting back to the camp?"

"No, ser. I'm feeling fit once more," Mallon assured him. "A little patch-up job is all I needed. I'll be fine." He nodded gratefully to the Warden, then headed back along the path. He moved stiffly, but did not seem to be limping very much. Bannon wondered what was in that potion, and how he could get some. He chewed speculatively at the plant fibers in his mouth. Come to think of it, maybe Daveth knew what it was called.

As he and the human rogue readied their bows once more and moved on, he decided to ask. The human told him it was Elfroot, but Bannon had never heard of it. Not that he knew anything about medicine or plants, save for a few vegetables. Daveth said it grew commonly all over Ferelden, but he didn't know what it looked like while it was still growing, either.

...

The Warden recruits continued onward. The scouting trail petered out, and Bannon began to feel a little lost. Every green hill and tussock looked pretty much the same. The sun was still ahead of them, but kept rising into the sky as the day wore on, and he couldn't always tell if it were moving or they were turning. Alistair and Ser Jory seemed confident enough that they were still heading in the right direction. Bannon made a note not to let them get killed, so they could take him back to camp. Otherwise, he might end up wandering around out here for days.

They came upon some more darkspawn a while later. "Watch out," Alistair said low, drawing his sword and hefting his shield. "Up ahead."

The recruits peered at a steep narrow hill lying on the ground like the spine of some animal. Three - no, four! - dark figures appeared cresting the top. Bannon and Daveth raised their bows and fired. The elf's arrow fell short; he wasn't used to shooting such long distances. But he compensated, and the darkspawn _were_ bigger than pumpkins.

Unlike pumpkins, however, they shot back. A heavy arrow flew near Daveth's head, making him flinch and spoil his aim. Bannon was already ducking back behind Alistair, who deflected an arrow with his shield. The elf scurried for cover under some trees and returned fire. The human rogue followed half a second later and crouched behind some bushes.

"We can't stand here forever," Alistair said, raising his shield again.

"Here they come!" Jory warned. Two of the shorter, stout darkspawn ran down from the hill towards them, weapons raised.

"Hit the others on the ridge," Alistair yelled as he charged to meet them.

Ser Jory followed. "And not us!"

Do _not_ shoot the shems in the ass! Bannon reminded himself. He grinned wickedly and aimed for the darkspawn archers on the hill. He barely twitched as an arrow thunked into the tree trunk a few inches from his face.

The two warriors engaged the darkspawn, blade to blade. Moving together, they made short work of the beastial creatures. Then the two ducked under the crossfire and ran up the hill. Bannon and Daveth had to stop shooting, so they ran forward, drawing their blades. By the time they got to the crest of the hill, they might as well not have bothered. Daveth gamely stuck his sword into the darkspawn engaging Ser Jory. The beast was already gouting blood from the champion's heavy blade. It fell with a gurgle.

Alistair had his opponent down, felled by a blow from his shield. The Warden jammed his blade down into the darkspawn's chest, stepping on its stomach to keep it pinned as it thrashed and expired.

The four stood panting for breath. The Wilds were silent, save for the blood rushing in Bannon's ears. He looked down at the darkspawn as Alistair yanked his blade free. It _was_ monstrous - it had the shape of a human, but the resemblance ended there. It had grey-black skin, like a rotted corpse. No hair, and its lipless mouth was full of long, jagged teeth. It's eyes were murkey grey and pupilless.

Bannon rubbed his forearm across his nose. "Well, I can see how it isn't hard to sense these things. They stink to high heaven!" Alistair chuckled dryly, wiping his blade on the ground. Bannon sheathed his, feeling a bit awkward and useless.

Ser Jory knelt beside the dead darkspawn, the stone vial in his fingers. "Grab some blood," he told the other two. "We can have this mess finished with, at least."

"We didn't kill them," Bannon said.

"I don't see how it matters," the knight grumbled. He stoppered the vial and tried to shake the dark crimson blood off his fingers.

Davith said, "Duncan told us to take it from one we killed ourselves. He said we'd know the right one."

"Sounds like nonsense." Jory heaved himself to his feet, still holding the blood-smeared vial gingerly between fingertip and thumb, as if afraid of getting it on him. His armor was already spattered, so Bannon couldn't imagine why. The elf glanced at Alistair.

The young Warden was judiciously holding his tongue. Then he said, "We still have to find the ruins of the outpost. I'm sure there'll be more darkspawn along the way."

Daveth shrugged. "The day is young, yet." He gestured to Bannon, and the two started retrieving their arrows. Only a few sticking out of the darkspawn weren't broken or shorn off by a blade. They ranged further afield, checking the other corpses. And Bannon, of course, checking the grass and brush for his stray shots.

"These are called hurlocks," Alistair said, loudly enough that all the recruits could hear him. "These big ones. The shorter ones, those are called genlocks."

"I call them 'ugly,'" Daveth muttered.

"What are female ones called?" Bannon lobbed the question up the hill. "So Daveth can ask one to his tent."

"Hey!"

Chuckling, Alistair picked his way down the steep side of the hill. Ser Jory went the long way around, down the easier slope. "You know," Alistair said thoughtfully, "I don't know what a female one is called. Or if they have any." He squinted down at the 'genlock' lying in the grass. "Or maybe females look just like the males. I've never really... well, you know." He gestured at the darkspawn's rags and bits of armor. "Peeked under the skirt, as it were."

"Maybe the smaller ones are female," Ser Jory ventured, his face wrinkled in disgust.

Bannon and Daveth looked at each other, pretty much the same expression on their faces. "No...," the human drawled; "I'm not _that_ desperate."

"Yet," Bannon said underbreath. The human just shot him a dirty look.

Ser Jory said, "We saw something past the next hill. It might be a camp or something."

"Let's check it out," Daveth said eagerly.

The group went around the hillside. The camp, or whatever it was, was nestled in a declivity, guarded by an old oak. Three corpses hung from the broad limb of the tree. They looked human, but as old and rotted as they were, it was hard to tell.

"Do darkspawn do that?" Ser Jory breathed.

"I don't know," Alistair said. "Not that I've seen."

Daveth said, "There are other hostile forces in these Wilds. Could be Chasind barbarians, warning people away from their territory."

"But we're Grey Wardens," Bannon said, somewhat too loudly. "We defend all from the Blight." The other sturned and stared at him. "What?" The elf shrugged. "Someone might be listening." The group glanced around nervously, but no one - darkspawn or barbarian - showed themselves. Only a single crow cawed, almost jeeringly.

"Right," Alistair said. "Let's go, then."

They passed under the tree and into the sheltered area beyond. It did look like a camp, or perhaps a scouting post. There was a ring of stones for a fire, a few piles of old sacking, a couple of chests, and three cages, now empty.

"Might've been slavers," Alistair mused.

"Hope that's them in the tree, then," Daveth spit. Ferelden was a nation that had never had slavery. Most Fereldens found the idea distasteful.

The rogue made a beeline for the nearest chest and struggled to open it. It was locked. "Should be able to jigger this," he assured his companions. "Just a second." He slipped a narrow, flat bit of metal into the lock and rattled it.

"A crowbar might work better," Ser Jory said derisively.

"You have absolutely _no_ appreciation for finesse, ser knight. Besides," Daveth said, jiggling the pick harder, "how would I fit one into my pants?" He gave a twist and the pick snapped off. "Damn!"

"Here, let me see." Bannon nudged the grumbling human aside. From his utility pouch, he pulled one of his father's skeleton keys. With a deft flick, he dislodged the broken pick from the lock, then he 'jiggered' it open. The bolt clicked back, and Bannon raised the lid of the chest with a smug grin.

Daveth narrowed his eyes. "You're sure that you're a carpenter, not a locksmith?" Greedily, he stared at the skeleton key.

"What?" said Bannon, the picture of innocence. "My father was a cabinet-maker. Some of them have locks, and sometimes they get stuck."

"Riiiiiight. Well, you check if the other lock is 'stuck' while I take inventory here." The human dove eagerly into the contents of the chest. Bannon went to open the other one. "You lot," Daveth said to Jory and Alistair, "can poke through those sacks."

The warriors looked at the pile. "Scavenge through a bunch of dirty slaver laundry?" Ser Jory scoffed. "What do you imagine we might find?"

"Loose change?" Alistair added.

"You never know what might turn up," Daveth insisted. "Keys, for one thing. Not that we need those. Food, healing supplies..."

Bannon wouldn't mind something for his arm. It didn't hurt as much as before, but it twinged when he moved. They only scored a couple of boots, some rope, bandages, a battered old book - no real portable wealth. There was a silver ring, just a plain one with no design or gems. Or perhaps it was really only steel. Bannon slipped it onto his finger. At least it was something. The two shems poking through the dirty rags found... dirty rags. There was a sack of what might have been flour once, before moisture had seeped into it and it sprouted into a morass of mold.

Alistair and Jory gladly moved back out of the site, swords out, looking for whoever - or whatever - had strung up the three bodies. Bannon took a packet of brown powder to Daveth, to see if the rogue could identify it.

"Elfroot powder," he said. Bannon had his tongue stuck in it before he added, "or Deathroot. Hard to say."

"SPAUGH!" Bannon spit it out. Holy Maker, if he got poisoned, he was going to kill the thief!

Ser Jory and Alistair looked back in alarm. Daveth waved them off. "'S all right! We'll be there in a second!" Solicitously, he patted Bannon on the back. The elf gave him an evil look. "Sorry." Daveth didn't sound sorry in the least. In fact, his mind was on something else entirely. "Listen," he said, hissing low, "you remember I said I was 'justly rewarded' for helping that deserter?"

"Yeah?" Bannon spit on the ground and tried to wipe off his tongue.

Daveth glanced around conspirationally. "He gave me a key to a chest in the camp."

"That he was hiding where, exactly?"

"Never mind, it's thoroughly washed off!" Daveth paused to glance around again. "If you help me divert some attention, we could get the goods."

"Hold it, hold it!" Bannon pushed away slightly. "Steal from the army? You'll end up in a cage right next to him!"

"No, no, no." Daveth quickly waved that off. "It belongs to the mages. All you have to do is talk to one of those simple ones." He tapped a forefinger against his skull to explain what he meant. "Just for a few minutes."

"Are you out of your mind? The mages will do worse to you than stick you in a cage and hang you!"

"Only if they find out," the irrepresible rogue retorted. "This is a golden opportunity! We have the key, so it isn't even like stealing. No thief could pass this up."

"I'm not a thief," Bannon snapped. "I'm a carpenter." He brushed past the human.

"So you're going to rat me out, then?" Daveth growled.

The elf stopped and turned back. "Hey, I don't know anything about any key you found in a latrine somewhere." The human stopped scowling so ferociously, but he still looked disappointed.

...

They rejoined their companions and continued their journey. They encountered more small clusters of darkspawn and dealt with them in a similar fashion. Still, the archers hadn't bagged their own personall darkspawn, as Daveth called it.

They came to a place where the ground sloped down to a large lake. A huge stone edifice, topped with a dome, lay partly submerged in the water. The top of the dome was greened with verdegris, and marble statues at least fifteen feet tall stood in recessed alcoves around the walls.

"Tell me that's not the Warden stronghold," Jory griped.

"I don't know," Daveth said. "Let's ask the resident architect." He turned to Bannon. "Does it look Tevinter to you?"

The elf shrugged. "I don't think so."

"He's not an expert," Jory snorted.

"Maybe not," Alistair replied, "but I agree with him."

"It's more rounded," Bannon said, defending his opinion. "The Tevinter stuff is angular. And their arches are pointed." He raised a hand to indicate what he meant on the ruin. "Those arches have rounded tops."

"Well that's a fine mess," the knight said. "We can't swim into the ruins and pull out a bunch of papers."

"It's not all submerged," Alistair pointed out, though he didn't sound very hopeful.

Bannon studied the lake shore. This must be the dome the note talked about, but he didn't see any outcropping overlooking it. The lake curved out of sight to the left. The far side was obscured by the dome - was it resting on the steep hillside behind it, or was it actually out in the middle of the water? The shore to the right was broken up with some rocks, and a bit further back, a bit of ancient wall. Trees screened everything beyond that. Bannon gestured that way. "That looks like the best way to go."

The group made its way down the slope to the shore. It was muddy and dropped off sharply into the lake. Wavelets lapped quietly against the bank. The recruits picked their way around some boulders. They moved further from the shore, because the soggy ground sucked uncomfortably at their boots. They came upon a flat lane that ran between piles of stone and clumps of trees. The sward was covered in grass, but it felt like a road; perhaps paving stones lay beneath the ground. It ran to a wide stream extending out from the lake. A wall stood incongruously in the middle of the water, its columns marching down the waterway. A wooden bridge crossed it at a break in the wall.

"Well that looks pointy-Tevinter," Jory said, gesturing forward. "Maybe they only made their domes round."

Bannon ignored him. "Well _that's_ not Tevinter," he said, pointing at two crude totems standing on either side of the grassy 'road.' They were wood and metal, bound together with leather straps. The struts were curved, like great teeth or tusks, and the metal was rusted and jagged. "Are those - what did you call those barbarians?"

"Those are not Chasind," Alistair said, shrugging his arms to bring his shield down into his hand. "It's darkspawn." The Warden recruits prepared themselves for battle. "Stick together, this is a larger group than we've seen before," Alistair warned them.

"Hang on, now," Daveth said. "How many?"

Alistair peered forward, eyes unfocussed, for a minute or two. "I'm not sure. Two or three times as many as the other groups."

"Should we go the other way?" Jory asked, licking his lips nervously.

"We haven't had any problem fighting them so far," Alistair said. "I think we can take them."

"What are we supposed to do?" Jory growled, his voice tight. "Keep fighting more until we _do_ get killed? What happened to 'we'll be all right if we're careful'?"

"Careful like what?" Bannon lost patience with the 'cautious' knight. "Running home and hiding under the bed?" Ser Jory flushed crimson.

"Put a sock in it, you two!" Daveth snapped. Surprised, the other three stared at him. The rogue rolled his eyes dramatically. "Look, if we sneak up near that wall, and me and Bannon poke a few holes in 'em to get their attention, we can make them chase us over that bridge. It's not wide enough for more than two of those blighters. It'll choke them off."

"That... sounds like a good plan," Ser Jory said reluctantly. Alistair nodded.

Bannon and Daveth crept forward, bows held ready, keeping to a sparse row of trees along one side of the lane. The warriors followed them. There was quite a stretch of open ground between the end of the treeline and the near side of the bridge. They still hadn't spotted any darkspawn. Water gurgled along the length of the stone wall, masking any noise beyond.

Daveth said to Bannon, "We'll draw them out, let them chase us." He glanced over his shoulder to Jory and Alistair. "When they start running over the bridge, intercept them right at the end, there."

Bannon expected Ser Jory to protest the thief from giving orders while the knight was 'in command.' But he didn't. He must've realized there wasn't any better plan. The elf followed Daveth out into the open. The thief muttered something about wishing he had some traps, then he darted across the lane and turned, scanning past the ruined wall. He didn't see anything.

Bannon saw a large darkspawn come into view, and he raised his bow. He didn't fire right away. He studied his target, waited for the right moment. This one seemed particularly well-armored, but at least Bannon was only trying to annoy it and get it to lead its fellows in pursuit of him. It had a helm, too. Or at least, Bannon hoped those bristling horns weren't actually _growing_ out of the creature's head.

The thing spotted him just a split second after he loosed his arrow. The shaft bounced off the armor, and Bannon shot another. The darkspawn roared and ran towards him. Perfect. This was easy! The thing had no way of shooting back at him, and he could stand here and pepper it with arrows as it tried to reach him.

But the fiend stopped at the far end of the bridge and growled, gesticulating as if trying to scare him off. Hah! Then something shot from the beast's hand - not a bolt or an arrow; it was a green glob hissing through the air. It hit Bannon as he tried to turn, and splashed over his arm, chest, and face. The impact knocked him down, and sharp burning pain bit into his flesh. Acid! He cried out and scrambled backwards, but it would stick to him, eat through his leathers and his skin. In a panic, he tried to wipe it away, but... he was dry. He stared a moment. He still felt the pain. Magic!

"Look out!"

Another sizzling globule flew towards him. He twisted to his hands and knees, grabbed his bow, and pushed forward into a sprint. The acid hit him in the leg and he cried out. He forced himself onward. _It's just pain. There's no damage. MOVE!_ He staggered back to the sparse cover of the trees. He stumbled against Ser Jory, his leg blazing with pain. The knight roughly steadied him. Bannon turned back just as Daveth ran up. Why hadn't Alistair and Jory gone forward? Then he saw - "It's not chasing us."

"So much for that plan," said Jory. "We'll have to charge him. Hold the far end of the bridge."

"Follow me," Alistair said, already moving. "Stay behind my shield." He and the knight ran forward, Daveth a few steps behind, ready to back them up. Bannon pulled out a fresh arrow and nocked it, then ran after them, still limping. He could see a few more darkspawn joining the first. The horn-helmed bastard turned and ran. Alistair and Jory pounded over the bridge. Daveth stopped at mid-span to shoot.

Bannon skidded to a halt, the rogue's prior words coming back to him. "No, wait!"

It was too late. Alistair's lead foot hit the dust on the other side of the bridge, and iron jaws snapped closed around his shin. He pitched forward, unable to catch himself. Jory barely turned to avoid tripping on him, but another trap closed on his leg. With a yell half war-cry and half panic, the knight of Highever swung his long blade over Alistair and hit one of the charging genlocks in the neck. It fell backwards, a fan of dark blood spraying out.

Alistair managed to get to one knee and brace behind his shield. "A little help, here!" he called out, brandishing his sword gamely.

Daveth cursed and shouldered his bow. He darted forward, ducking low as a few hurlocks began shooting at them. Heedless of his own safety, he threw himself down on his stomach and started working on dismatling the device holding the trap shut on Jory's leg.

"Just hit the lever!" the knight screamed, fending off their attackers with wild swings.

"It's not a bear trap, it's a man trap!" the thief snapped back. "It's going to take... umf... a bit of jiggering..."

"Jigger it! Jigger it!" An arrow skidded across Jory's pauldron, and his voice rose in pitch. "_Jigger faster!_"

...

Meanwhile, Bannon saw the whole fiasco unfolding in his mind a split second before it actually happened. They fell right into the trap they tried to spring on the darkspawn! "Frontal attack is bad," the elf decided. He slung his bow back onto his shoulder and leapt from the bridge to a little islet of stone and mud that had formed by one of the pillars holding up the ancient wall. He hopped to a half-submerged stone slab, then another islet, working his way down the wall and hopefully around the flank of the darkspawn.

He came to an arched window - with the distinctive Tevinter point - and jumped onto the wide stone sill. Crouching low, he ducked through it. He was nearly pitched backwards into the water when the bow and sword hilt sticking up over his shoulder failed to clear the opening. Hissing a curse through gritted teeth, Bannon caught himself and ducked _lower_. He definitely preferred the modern, more open arches.

Bannon launched himself at the far bank. He hit the steep muddy slope on all fours and scrambled up. He had landed behind a pair of hurlocks shooting at his companions. Engrossed in their attack, they didn't notice the elf. Bannon pulled out his sword. These darkspawn didn't have helmets. He took a breath, aimed carefully, and swung at the neck of the closest one. The blade bit deep, and he ducked a fount of blood. He yanked the sword free and swung hard at the other hurlock's head as it was turning. Metal cracked bone and the bladge wedged across the hurlock's face. It roared and reared back. Bannon gripped the hilt with both hands and pulled it free. He thrust the point at the hurlock's neck, immediately realizing it would do no good as the creature pulled away even as he extended. But the darkspawn opened it's gaping jaws and lunged at him. The sword point penetrated the back of its throat and lodged there as it thrashed and went down, spewing blood. Bannon followed it down, throwing his weight behind his sword, not trusting the thing to die and be done with it. The sword sheared through gristle and bone, and into the dirt. The darkspawn flopped once and lay still. Bannon planted one foot across its cloven face and hauled back to free his blade.

He paused to catch his racing breath, looking around to see if more foes had spotted him. Then he heard a low voice speaking, almost chanting, in a twisted tongue. It made the hair on his neck stand on end.

...

Daveth grunted and finally jimmied the trap open, freeing Jory's leg. "Don't step on me!" The knight stood over the rogue as the latter wriggled forward to reach Alistair.

"Where's Bannon?" Alistair asked. He raised his shield higher, angling it over his head as a genlock began hammering down on it with a blunt blade. The beast's fanged grin seemed more wildly gleeful than usual, as if finally glad to have someone shorter than itself to beat on.

"Don't know," Daveth called back over the ringing blows. "Want me to go fetch him?"

"Damned elf ran away," Ser Jory opined. He managed to drive back two hurlocks and yet another genlock, but his cheeks were red and puffing with effort. The darkspawn bled profusely, but the knight couldn't stop for a killing blow. The second his long blade was fouled up in a carcass, the others would be on him like a pack of ravening wolves.

Annoyed by the relentless WHAM WHAM WHAM going on over his head (and was that genlock _giggling_?), Alistair raised his shield further and thrust out with his sword, burying the point in the darkspawn's groin. The thing shrieked like a demonic pig and fell back. From under his shield, Alistair saw the hurlock mage. He hadn't run all that far, and he was casting another spell.

Green witchlight seeped up from the ground and slithered about the Wardens. "What the hell is that?" Daveth screamed in a panic. It wreathed him from head to toe.

"Set your feet!" Alistair warned Ser Jory. "Don't move, or you'll fall!"

The witchlight settled into the ground and a slippery muck formed there. Jory stood firm, and the darkspawn staggered. One hurlock's foot shot out from under him, and he slammed down on his backside. The knight brayed a laugh - he couldn't help it; it was reflex.

The other two darkspawn stumbled against each other, trying to hold themselves upright as their feet slid in all different directions. "They're fleeing," Jory said, once he realized the direction they were trying to go.

Alistair's face went pale under his helm. Still peering under his shield, he could see the hurlock mage raising its arms to call down more magic. Flames wreathed its right arm, which it levelled directly at the humans.

"Daveth," Alistair said, his words spilling out rapidly in a panic. "I need you to put an arrow in that hurlock's eye _right now_, or he's going to set us on fire!"

The thief looked up from where he was lying on his side, half covered in grease muck, hands and tools tangled up in trying to release the trap. "WHAT!"

...

Bannon crept around a low barricade of roughly-hewn logs the archers had been using as cover. The horn-helmed darkspawn was several feet away, facing away from him. The eerie chanting sound came from it. It raised its right arm, which suddenly burst into flame. Not on fire, but in command of it. The hurlock pointed at the trapped Wardens.

Bannon didn't know what else to do - he couldn't strike the darkspawn's head or neck because of the helmet; he didn't see any place to stab it through its carapace of armor - so he leapt forward and brought his sword down with all his might on the hurlock's arm. The thing screamed and a gout of fire spat out at the ground. Hot flames rebounded upward at the two of them.

...

Alistair's eyes widened further as they were saved at the very last second, and then both elf and darkspawn were obscured by a sheet of flames. The trap on his leg clattered open, and he leapt to his feet. He leaned down to Daveth, his sword arm crooked for the man to grab onto as Alistair hauled him to his feet. Daveth wasted no time drawing his blades and moving to Ser Jory's side.

The three darkspawn recovered now that the grease spell had dried from the ground. They advanced, growling and snapping.

"You guys handle these," Alistair said. "I'm going to help Bannon."

...

Bannon jumped away from the sudden rage of the fire, and the darkspawn did too. The magical flame flashed and went out. He felt singed, but not too badly. He backed up a few steps, searching for good footing, then he held his sword in guard position like he'd seen Alistair do. There was no point in wildly attacking this darkspawn mage; he'd have to use his brains. The hurlock's right arm dangled uselessly, though Bannon couldnt see any sign it was in pain. Hopefully, it couldn't cast any more spells.

The hurlock pulled a long cudgel from its belt awkwardly, using its left hand. It advanced on Bannon, eerily silent. Bannon braced himself. _Come on, what did fighting Vaughn teach you?_ He fended off a couple of swings, then jumped forward as the darkspawn raised its weapon for an overhead blow. Afraid of breaking his toe on some groin armor, Bannon planted the sole of his boot in the hurlock's stomach and kicked hard. It staggered back, tipping sideways towards its wounded arm. Bannon followed with a horizontal swing and was rewarded with a splash of blood as his sword bit into flesh and rib bone. There was one place it wasn't armored!

Bannon's snarl of triumph was short-lived, because two genlocks came barreling around their leader, squealing for blood. He couldn't let them surround him! He rushed the hurlock, which had barely recovered. The speed and fury of his wild attack could push it back for a second, give him a chance to duck around its unprotected side. He did so, but not fast enough or low enough, because he felt a heavy blow across his shoulders. The bow and scabbard harness took the brunt of the damage.

He only had one sword against three! He skipped sideways, because one genlock had gotten around where he couldn't see it. He ducked under the hurlock's club, but not low enough to avoid the genlock's swing at his head. He fell to one knee trying to parry. Unable to move, he was a sitting target. He felt rather than saw the third darkspawn coming up behind him.

WHAM! Suddenly a juggernaut slammed into that genlock, and Bannon heard it go flying into the dirt. "Glad you could join the party!" Alistair said, grinning from ear to ear as he slashed at the other genlock menacing Bannon.

Bannon tried to think of a witty retort about stupid shems falling into an obvious trap, but decided to save it for later. Instead, he parried a strike at his head from the hurlock. The genlock turned to attack Alistair. Gritting his teeth, Bannon lunged upward at the darkspawn towering over him. His sword point wedged between a chest plate and stomach plate and bit hungrily into the tainted flesh beneath. Driving with his legs, Bannon shoved the blade into the beast's black heart and toppled it over. The damned sword was stuck good this time; Bannon wrenched his arm trying to free it. He didn't have time for this! He bent and grabbed the cudgel and whirled on Alistair's opponent. A satisfying CRACK split the air as he hit the small darkspawn in the head. It staggered to its knees, and Alistair finished it off with a sweep of his sword.

Then he turned to the other genlock, scrambling to get to its feet. Alistair planted a boot in its backside and shoved it flat. "And... _stay_ down!" the human yelled, thrusting his sword through its neck.

The Warden pulled his sword up and looked around. "Is everybody all right?" Daveth and Jory were limping and staggering, but still upright as they made their way over.

Daveth called, "Just tell me there's no more waiting to jump us." Alistair tilted his head as if listening. Then he shook it. "Then bust out the bandages," the rogue groaned. "This was not fun."

Bannon turned back to the hurlock and tugged at his sword. With some wiggling and a bit of cursing, it came free. Dark red-black heartsblood poured out of the hole it left behind. He stuck the blade into the muddy earth and pulled the stone vial out of his pouch.

Daveth whistled low as he saw Bannon collecting the blood. "You bagged yourself a mighty impressive one, mate." He sounded almost jealous a moment, then seemed to shake it off. "Maybe you can get those horns mounted to display on your wall." Jory and Alistair watched silently, the latter chewing on the corner of his lip.

Bannon stoppered the vial and put it away after wiping blood off the outside of it the best he could. He, like the others, was spattered head to toe with crimson stains. He pulled the sword out of the mud, glad to see that had gotten most of the blood off the blade. Alistair approached him.

"Um, you have a little smutch," the Warden said, wiggling his fingers near his face. "Like right there. Looks like a red nose those festival clowns wear."

Bannon didn't immediately register the puzzled looks the other two gave him; he swiped his nose with his free hand. Then they started laughing. He frowned at them.

"Sorry," said Alistair, a grin breaking out across his face. "I lied. But you _do_ have one now!"

Bannon glared down at his hand; of course it was covered in blood. "Dammit, Alistair!" The human laughed and threw a rag at him as he started pulling bandages from his pack. Bannon wiped his face furiously. But damn, that was a funny one.

Alistair suggested they move away from the stench of the dead darkspawn, so they followed a path that led further along the lake shore until they found a spot where they could sit and tend their wounds. Bannon, the least hurt, fetched water from the lake in a leather bucket Alistair had folded in his pack. Alistair was his new best friend. Besides bandages and emergency healing potions, he also had some food tucked away in his pack. It was thin strips of dried meat, a bare step above boot leather, but it was welcome along with their brief respite.

"Well," Bannon said, "I can definitely say I prefer being shorter than my opponent."

"Not me," Alistair said emphatically.

"I wish you hadn't killed that one," Daveth told him. "I wouldn't mind claiming the giggling darkspawn as mine."

Alistair turned to him. "_Was_ he giggling?" The thief nodded. "I thought my hearing was going, with all that racket going on. Or I was losing my mind."

"Do they do that?" Jory asked. "Laugh, I mean. Seems strange."

Bannon put in, "The big one was chanting something. Some kind of words. It was creepy." He shuddered.

"The language of magic." Alistair nodded. Then he returned to Jory's question. "They don't really communicate in words. Some of them can do magic, obviously. But I've never heard or heard tell of a darkspawn laughing."

"Would've liked to have seen that," said Bannon.

"Trust me," Daveth said, "it wasn't funny."


	6. The Witch of the Wilds

(_Warnings: foul language._)

After some makeshift cleaning and patching-up, the Warden group looked years older than they had that morning. Armor was patched with rags and cord, and stained with dried blood. Each Warden bore a bandage or two. Daveth was still limping, Jory's shoulders were stiff. Bannon felt as if he'd been rolled by a couple of street thugs.

Bannon's bow had taken a bad cut, and he feared it would snap if he tried to draw it. He and Daveth got into a discussion of how best to repair it, but both had to agree it would take some resin or laminate. Alistair suggested using tree sap, which was actually a brilliant idea. Except neither the humans nor the city elf had any idea which trees might yield some. After slicing a few random ones, they gave up.

The terrain became steeper, and the path they were following turned away from the lake. They continued along it, hoping it would lead to an easier way to the far shore. But it soon petered out into a rolling field, bordered by hills. "Great," Alistair grumbled.

"Hey, guys...," said Bannon. "Oh, listen; I'm gonna go... you know. Over in those bushes. I'll only be a couple of minutes."

"You couldn't think of that before?" Jory complained.

"Just be careful," Alistair said. "Don't stray too far. There shouldn't be any darkspawn about, but we don't know what else could be lurking out here."

"Don't worry, I'll scream if I need you." The elf ducked through some underbrush.

"And don't use any poison ivy for mop up!" Daveth called cheerfully.

...

Bannon pushed through the brambles until he thankfully found a tiny path winding through them. He zig-zagged up a steep rise, then the bushes ended at a steeper, rocky slope. Grabbing some of the outcroppings to help haul himself up, he hurried to the top. He only had a few minutes before the humans began to wonder where he was. He hadn't given this magic wish thing much thought, but he was pretty sure the overlook was up here, and there was no harm in giving it a try.

He decided he would ask the spirit to free Soris. If it couldn't grant boons like that, he'd ask for a magical ring of protection. That ought to come in handy during this war. And if that weren't possible, a handful of gems would go a long way into buying such things.

Puffing from the climb, Bannon came out on a broad hump of land - yes, overlooking the lake. He stepped out onto a flat boulder, and came upon a pile of stones. These were dusted with old ashes. Well, he thought, someone believes this legend. But if it were true, wouldn't it be more widely known? No, not if only a bunch of barbarians used it.

Bannon pulled out the pouch of ashes and scanned over the note one more time. It didn't specify any magic words or ritual, so he just composed himself reverently and strewed the ashes over the stones. A faint breeze caught a puff of grey and carried it over the edge to drift down to the water below. Bannon leaned forward to peer down, hoping to see the water spirit rise.

Nothing happened.

Feeling stupid, Bannon opened his mouth to entreat the spirit (if the damned thing even existed), when a sepulchural voice grated from behind him. "Who dares summon Gazerath?"

With a smile, and all the humility he could muster, Bannon turned to face the spirit, words of sympathy and respect on his lips, the best to wheedle a gift out of it.

...

After the elf had disappeared into the bushes, the three humans stood around a few minutes. Alistair jiggled his leg nervously. "I wish he hadn't mentioned that."

Ser Jory sighed. "All right, but we'll go in shifts. It'll be safer."

"Well, I call dibs on the first shift."

Daveth jumped in with, "And I get second." Ser Jory just rolled his eyes at them. "And you, Ser Big-Bladder, can go last."

"Fine. At least we-"

He was interrupted by a scream. "Augh! _Help_!"

The trio jumped. "So much for safe," Daveth grumbled. Alistair led the charge into the bushes. The thorny vines scraped at his armor, but he barrelled through them. The Warden and his charges scrambled up the rocky slope and burst out at the top to see Bannon menaced by a transparent shadow. The elf slashed at it with his blade, but it appeared to pass right through the wraith without any effect. The creature lunged at Bannon, its spindly talons flexed. It raked them across the elf's chest, and Bannon was thrown backwards off the overhang. A scream followed him down, cut off abruptly, and then there was a splash.

Alistair's eyes flew wide and he attacked. The wraith was more corporeal now, having pushed fully through the Veil from the Fade. The swords of the three humans quickly pierced it on all sides. It went down, dissolving into a dark grey mist and falling to the rock as ash.

Alistair dropped his sword and shield, and began yanking off his helm, his boots, and the heavier pieces of his armor.

"Do you think he can swim?" Jory asked, peering hesitantly towards the drop-off.

Alistair didn't care; he wasn't about to lose one of the recruits Duncan had entrusted him with, not without a fight. Hell, the little guy had saved all their asses less than half an hour ago! Stripped down to his arm and leg guards, shirt and pants, Alistair raced to the edge of the outcropping. He stopped dead, teetering on the edge, as a voice shouted from below: "Do _not_ leap in to save me!"

"Bannon!" Alistair dropped to his hands and knees and looked down. The elf was several feet below, hanging from a spindly bush, his legs dangling in the air. "How did you-? What made that splash?"

"If you don't get me back up there in ten seconds, you'll never know!"

"Uh - right!" Alistair turned to the others. "Rope? Something?"

"Coming up!" Daveth dug through his satchel and produced some rope. "Thank you, slavers!"

In a few minutes, they had the elf back safe and sound - minus a few bruises and scratches. Bannon swatted Alistair's hand away as the Warden tried to solicitously brush him off. Alistair bent and started putting his armor back on.

"What was that thing?" Daveth asked.

Alistair looked up while tugging his boots on. "Ash wraith. A minor demon from the Fade."

"What was it doing here?" Ser Jory asked, looking around for more.

"I guess it took exception to me 'watering' its ashes," Bannon said, gesturing at the stone pile. The knight snorted.

"What are you doing up here, anyway?" Alistair asked him - not accusingly, just curious. "I thought you were just going into the bushes a little way."

"Well, I was," Bannon replied. "But they were a bit thorny... And I thought, you know, up here might be a good vantage point to get a look at the dome." He moved back towards the edge and swept a hand over the vista. "Which it is. Look, there's a hole in the roof on this side. If we had some kind of boat..."

Alistair stood up. "Give me a hand with this, would you?" he asked Jory. The knight moved to help him with the straps of his splint mail. "And what _was_ that splash?" the Warden demanded from Bannon.

"I hit some rocks on the way down."

Alistair had to admire the elf's luck. Well, maybe not, considering that he managed to piss a demon off by... you know. That was just downright funny. In a non-funny sort of way.

The Templar studied the dome with the others, and had to admit defeat. It stood deep in the lake and, hole or no hole, they had no boat. He took a quick poll; the two humans knew how to swim - some. The elf did not.

"We'll have to let Duncan know," Alistair decided. "And... I don't know, I guess find some way to get a boat out here."

"You don't still think those treaties are in there?" Jory asked incredulously. "They have to be washed away or soaked to mush by now."

"Not if they're in a sealed chest," Alistair replied firmly. "It could be watertight." He really hated letting his mentor down. With all the problems between the Grey Wardens and the Ferelden government, their low numbers and scarcity of recruits, those treaties could have helped Duncan immeasureably.

"Are we going back, then?" Daveth asked. "I haven't killed my darkspawn yet. Not on my own, anyhow."

"I don't know why you have to be so picky," Ser Jory complained again.

"I'm a connoisseur, ser knight! Of fine women. And hideous monsters."

"Sometimes in the same night," the elf chimed in. "He's still looking for a female darkspawn."

"Oy!"

Alistair snorted a chuckle. "All right." He cast around, trying to pick up traces of the Taint nearby. He didn't think he felt anything, but something - call it a hunch - urged him to go on a little further. "Maybe this wasn't the whole of the outpost. Maybe there's... something else nearby."

"We could head around the lake," Daveth suggested.

Alistair squinted into the distance. The lake was huge, maybe almost a mile long. And the sun was nearing the tops of the western treeline. "I don't think we have time for that. We'll need to head back soon."

So they made their way down from the outcropping and back to the field and hills. To their left, the slope climbed high into the sky. Footsore, they avoided that and continued in a southeasterly direction, their shadows ahead of them.

The Wilds seemed particularly quiet, until they startled a crow from its treetop perch. Cawing loudly in a rude complaint, it glided overhead and disappeared behind a knee of the tall hill. Alistair watched its flight a moment, then stopped. "Do you hear something?"

"Sounds like d- er, wolves," Bannon said, looking in the same direction.

"But what are they attacking?" Daveth asked, when the beasts didn't charge over the foothill towards them.

The four looked at each other. "Darkspawn."

They charged up the slope. Puffing, Jory gasped, "I thought we were avoiding going uphill."

"Less talk, more running," Alitair gasped himself. He crested the rise and stopped, almost slamming into Bannon and Daveth. The elf had his sword out, the roge his bow, but it wasn't drawn. "What are you doing?"

"Letting their numbers thin out," Daveth said. He thrust his chin at where the darkspawn and wolves were battling it out. "Whoever wins, we still got to fight them."

"Prefer fighting darkspawn," the elf muttered.

Jory came wheezing up beside Alistair. "Sounds... good plan."

"But they're just innocent animals." Alistair bit his lip. He didn't want to see the wolves suffer, but... there were a lot of things in this war he didn't like. Mabari sent barrelling into the darkspawn horde, biting Tainted flesh, getting split open on axes and swords; or men and women held down my comrades as they sawed off an infected arm or leg that even the mages couldn't heal. People dying. Screams in the night as those who fell in battle, but weren't quite dead, were dragged off to feed the Horde. "The darkspawn will slaughter them."

"Good point." Daveth said, clearly without Alistair's depth of feeling. "I don't mind evening up the odds a bit." He raised his bow slowly. "And if I get a nice, clear shot..."

Alistair couldn't see anything being clear in the tumult of fur and jaws, leaping bodies, falling swords. But the bowman apparently did, and he let fly. Daveth grunted in satisfaction as the shaft bored itself into a genlock's flank. The darkspawn didn't seem to notice. But Daveth drew again, missing once, but planting arrows in the genlock's neck. If he played his cards right, he could slay this one right now. His target staggered to its knees.

In a few more moments, the wolves lay dead or dying, and the darkspawn turned on the Warden group. "Time to earn our keep!" Alistair grunted as he and Ser Jory ran to meet them. There was a rumple in the hillside, and the two forces clashed in the declivity between peaks. Bannon ran around Alistair's off-side to surprise a hurlock when he appeared from behind the human's shield. Bannon stabbed his sword into the darkspawn's side, under its ribs, and the blade bit satisfyingly deep. The beast gurgled and died, and the elf looked eagerly for the next one.

All the darkspawn had wounds aplenty already, from wolf bites and arrows embedded in their stinking flesh. Alistair and Jory were making short work of them. Bannon slipped around behind the engaged creatures, stabbing and slicing at any weak, unguarded target. Now this was his idea of a fight! He grinned ferally.

Until a black arrow shaft whipped past his face and embedded itself in the back of his next target. Bannon whirled, crouching low. Two more tall hurlocks had crested the upper rise and were firing into the fray. _Shit!_ he thought as he dodged, and arrow aimed at his heart took a gouge out of his left bicep. Suddenly, the 'stand back and pick them off' strategy didn't seem like such a wonderful thing. He ran along the floor of the declivity, behind a screen of bushes. It was a long way around, but it was better than charging uphill into the teeth of the darkspawn arrows.

Alistair felled another hurlock and paused for breath. Daveth had joined them with his dancing blades, and between him and Ser Jory, they accounted for two more of the spawn. Something thudded against Alistair's shield. "Archers!" he yelled in warning, bringing it up to protect his head. "Split up!"

Alistair ran to his left, away from the other two. Daveth followed. "Split up, my Great Nanny's left teat!" the rogue spit. "You're the one with the shield!"

"We can't both hide behind it!"

"We can, if you just hunker down and let me get my bow out."

"Oh."

So they did, and the shield really wasnt decent cover for two men, but Daveth shot from behind Alistair, and they were as small a target as could be.

One of the hurlock archers tumbled backwards over the hillcrest. Alistair suddenly noted the absence of the elf again. Blast it, if he were going to look out for the little fellow, he'd have to keep better tabs on him. As for Ser Jory, the knight lay face down in the declivity, crawling for the scant cover of some bushes. Alistair and Daveth were too large and tempting a target anyway; they seemed to be drawing all the fire. Alistair ducked as an arrowhead struck his helm just above his eye, drawing a spark as it skidded off the steel. He kept his head down.

Daveth finally dropped the last archer. A few moments later, Bannon appeared where the hurlock had been and waved the all-clear. Alistair unfolded himself stiffly with a grunt, his joints popping.

Daveth rolled his shoulders and put up his bow. "Let's nAb me my 'trophy,'" he said, "and go home." They found the darkspawn Daveth had first brought down, and he proceeded to collect its blood. Ser Jory joined them, leaning on his sword to catch his breath. Alistair looked around for Bannon.

"Hey, guys!" The elf waved at them from the very top of the tall hillside. "Up here!"

"Oh, now what?" the hefty knight complained. Alistair gamely climbed the hill, Daveth behind him. Jory muttered a curse and followed laboriously, complaining underbreath all the way.

"I figure out what happened to that tower," Bannon told them cheerfully as they neared the crest. He paused a moment to reflect how difficult it must be to lug all that bulky human weight up a hill, and thanked the Maker he was an elf. The humans staggered the last few feet to the top. Bannon could barely wait; he headed over towards the ruins he'd found. "Look, the tower wasn't built down there. It fell over from up here, rolled down the hill," he gestured broadly, defining the motion of the tower, like some gigantic felled tree; "and landed down there in the lake." He grinned.

"That's nuts," Ser Jory wheezed.

"Maybe," Bannon said, "but the foundation of the tower is still here.

The top of the hill was broad and flat and crowed with a ring of stone. The foundation of the tower did look somewhat like a tree stump, a few jags of wall sticking up at the far side like splintered wood. Part of a spiral ramp led down from nowhere to the rough floor that was overgrown with grass. One third of the ruin lay deeper than that, the floor torn away. "Best of all," Bannon finished, gesturing grandly; "the vault is intact. Well, except for the roof and most of the walls. But that just makes it easier to get into."

Alistair's eyes lit up and he pushed forward to see. The Warden group picked their way over the ruin floor and down the inside wall. Age-loosened mortar had given way and let fall several clumps of stone block that served as rough steps. They rounded the one wall still standing and peered into the vault. Alistair let out an audible groan.

There was a chest in the vault all right, and it looked as if it had been a big, fancy one, too. But now, it was only so much kindling.

Daveth went over and nudged a piced with his foot, flipping it up to reveal a round design with stylized wings carved into it. "Would this be that Grey Warden symbol Duncan mentioned?"

"Yeah," Alistair said glumly.

"That's it, then," Jory added. "Some bear ages ago smashed the chest and ate the treaties."

"Or they blew away and some Chasind used them to wipe his arse," Daveth added cheerfully. He went over and clapped Alistair on the arm. "Don't worry, mate. Duncan said it'd be a long shot."

"Yeah," the Warden said again, still glum with disappointment.

"I don't think so," Bannon said. Ser Jory and Daveth looked at him. The knight's face was full of impatience and ire. Bannon ignored him and went over to the broken pieces. "Why would a bear attack a chest?"

"Looking for food," Ser Jory snorted, as if the elf were a dimwit. "There probably wasn't anything left in it but dust, anyway."

Bannon crouched and examined one of the wood slabs, running his fingertips over each side and edge. "This is thick veneer," he said. He prodded the main shell of the chest. "And these hinges are set flush, so it probably was watertight. This," he said, turning the raw edge of the wood towards them, "was broken recently. It isn't mushy or soft at all. Besides, in this climate, moss and bugs should have gotten to it. No," he mused speculatively. "this can't be more than... I don't know. A few weeks old." He stood and turned to the gaping humans. Heh, he thought to himself, carpenter _that_! They stared at him a full minute.

"Well," Daveth ventured slowly; "that still doesn't rule out a barbarian with a big club looking for an arse-rag."

Alistair shot him an evil look. "If this is recent, there may still be some clue as to who took them, and where," he said hopefully. "Let's have a better look around." The group cast about, but none of them were real trackers, and nothing jumped out at them. After several minutes, they had to admit they were probably obscuring any sign that a professional could have read, if Duncan wanted to send another expedition up here. So they climbed back out to the ruin's main floor.

They stood about a moment, checking their weapons and gear. Bannon had his helmet off to re-tie his hair back, but even so, he didn't hear anyone come up on them.

"And what," a chill voice cut through the air, "do we have here?" The Warden recruits turned to see a woman approaching them. She stalked down a ramp that led... from nowhere but open sky. Her boots were tall, dark leather, soft upon the ancient stones. Dark pants clung tightly to her legs, while a long skirt of leather straps quietly hissed and tapped together as her limbs moved. One arm was bare, decorated with a single leather strap bearing feathers and fur and beads; the other was sheathed in more leather, from the fingerless gloves on her hand to a small shoulder guard trimmed in black feathers that sparked green irridescence in the fading light. She wore no shirt, but a maroon fall of cloth that laid over her shoulders and covered her breasts and upper stomach. At her throat, more beads and claws hung on a leather strap, as well as a strand of hammered silver disks with incised patterns. Her dark hair was bound up. A crooked wooden stave was slung across her back. Her eyes were an eerie golden shade, almost glowing with inner light. "Vultures, come to pick clean bones long dead?" She pinned them with her unblinking cat-eyes. None of the men moved or spoke. Like a panther, smooth and confident, she walked between them to the rim of the ruined tower and turned back. "I have been watching your progress for some time, now. 'Where do they go?' I wondered. 'What is it they seek, here in my Wilds?'" She paused now, hands on her hips, awaiting their reply.

"Don't answer," Alistair warned in a low voice. "She looks Chasind. There are probably others... watching."

"Oh," the woman replied, her keen ears having picked up his voice, "afraid a horde of barbarians will swoop down on you?" She gestured dramatically, raising her arms as if in attack.

"Yes...," Alistair agreed sheepishly. "Swooping... is bad."

Bannon shot him a look. "We're Grey Wardens," he said confidently. "We're here to stop the Blight."

"Just the four of you? All by yourselves?"

"There are more of us," the elf assured her. "We are here on a mission."

Then Daveth spoke up, his voice thin with nervous tension. "She's a witch of the Wilds, she is. She'll turn us into toads, for sure!" Ser Jory bit his lip, looking from his companion to the strange woman with widening eyes.

"Barbarians and witches," she commented dryly. "What wild tales you believe." She tilted her head and thrust her chin towards Bannon. "And you, elf? Do you believe such campfire stories?"

Bannon glanced left and right at the humans. Then he shrugged and looked up at the woman. "I'm just a back-street city elf. I don't know anything about barbarians and cannibals and witches and mages." He shrugged again, spreading his hands palm up. "If you want me to know, you'll have to tell me."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "And if I should say that I am, indeed, a witch?"

Bannon spread his hands with a soft smile. "Then you don't need a horde of barbarians to threaten us."

"Do I seem threatening?" She smiled a cold, snake's smile. "Let us be cordial, then. What is your name?"

"Bannon." He gave her a polte nod of his head and kept his eyes fixed on hers. It was difficult, not only because they were eerily cat-like, but because he felt for sue that the cloth she was wearing on her chest was in imminent danger of swinging wide and revealing more skin. But if he stared at that, he'd be in big trouble, he knew. "Pleased to meet you." He smiled faintly, just a hint. If he overplayed it, it would seem glaringly fake.

"Well, it seems civilized folk _can_ be civil." She seemed to unbend a notch and her brow relaxed out of her lowered scowl.

Encouraged, Bannon gestured to his companions. "This is Alistair. And D-" He was suddenly cut off by the rogue hissing frantically, _Don't tell her my name!_ -"Dufus," he recovered smoothly. "And Ser Jory."

The knight sketched a slight bow. "Ma'am," he said deferentially.

"You may call me Morrigan." She crossed her arms over her midriff, cupping her elbows in her hands. "And you still have not answered my question."

Alistair narrowed his eyes. "And you haven't answered ours. Are you a mage? The Chantry demans an an accounting of all Mages in Ferelden," he growled. "It's the Law."

"How odd," Morrigan retorted, her voice dropping to another degree of chilly. "I thought you were a Grey Warden, but you sound remarkably like a Templar."

"I was trained as a Templar before being recruited."

"That explains much," she retorted sourly.

Bannon stepped in before firebolts and swords started flying. "Look," he said, putting a placating hand on Alistair's forearm; "this is the Wilds. If she's Chasind, that mean's she's not Ferelden. I'm sure they have their own laws."

"The Kingdom of Ferelden encompasses this entire area," Alistair argued hotly. Was this guy _trying_ to get them killed?

Bannon turned to face him squarely, his back to the witch. His lip pinned under his teeth in intensity, he made a sharp slicing motion with one hand at his throat. Alistair's face took on a mulish cast, and Bannon glared angrily at him.

"Look," Ser Jory said, his eyes darting between his companions. "If she really is a witch, you want to make her mad?"

"Are you here on some sort of witch hunt?" Morrigan demanded. "Or are you merely in pursuit of that which is here no longer?"

"Here no longer?" Alistair frowned, picking up on the woman's words. "As in they _were_ here? And you took them? You're some sort of... sneaky witch-thief!" Bannon could hardly believe his ears. Alistair was acting like a dog when another intruded upon its territory. The elf didn't know what kind of training Templars had against mages, but Alistair clearly lacked a healthy fear of them. "Those treaties belong to the Grey Wardens," the man growled. "I suggest you hand them over to us, right now."

Morrigan's scowl had returned. "Suggest all you like, fool," she spat. "'Twas not I who took them."

"You-!" Alistair froze in mid-exclamation. "Oh." At least now he sounded properly sheepish.

Bannon shot him another warning look. Then he turned to Morrigan. "Can you tell us who did?"

"'Twas my mother."

"Your mother?" all four men said at once. Morrigan arched a brow at them.

"Is that some kind of joke?" Bannon asked hesitantly.

"Only if you know my mother," the witch answered cryptically, with a put-upon air. "Come with me, then." She turned to slip out through a gap in the old ruin's wall. "I will take you to her." She turned back, her face in shadow except the brilliant golden eyes. "If you wish to ask for your treaties back, that is."

"We shouldn't go," Daveth gulped. "It's a trick! She'll have us all in the pot, she will!"

"It can't be worse than slogging through this swamp," Ser Jory griped. "A good, hot bath sounds like just the thing about now."

"It's getting dark," Alistair said hesitantly.

Bannon went after the witch, letting the others decide to follow or leave without him. "You want your treaties, don't you? Well, come on." He slipped through the gap in the stones. "Thank you, Morrigan," he said softly to her.

...

The Wardens followed Morrigan to an overhung path that led to a clearing by a small pond. A chorus of frogs suddenly went silent as the group approached a small but sturdy shack.

"Mother," Morrigan called out; "we have guests."

A grey-haired old woman exited the shack. Her hair was worn mid-length and still had the thickness of a younger woman's. And though her face and hands bore the wrinkles and gnarls of age, her step was light and strong, her spine straight. She didn't seem to have any weapons, not even staff or wand. Her gold-grey eyes ran over the young warriors, making them shiver.

"Mother," Morrigan said, turning to gesture at the men. "These are the Grey Wardens. The elf, Bannon. Alistair. That's Ser Jory and...," she stopped and fixed Daveth with a penetrating stare. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

Daveth gulped audibly. "D-Dufus, mum." He flushed.

"Dufus," Morrigan repeated, turning back to her mother with a catty smile.

The old woman threw her head back and laughed. It sounded disconcertingly like a cackle. "And you can call me Flemeth."

"Flemeth?" Daveth's reddened face quickly drained to pale white. "_The_ Flemeth?" His voice turned into a horase ghost of its former self. "It's the Witch of the Wilds! I told you," he moaned. "She'll have us in the stewpot for sure!"

"Oh please," the woman called Flemeth scoffed. "Why would I ruin a lovely dinner with you lot? I have your precious papers here..." She dug around in a large bag she had looped over one shoulder. "Somewhere... And before you go barking at me, the magic seal wore off ages ago. I was keeping them safe for you."

Alistair froze, his mouth half open, his hand half-raised as if to - well, start barking again. "Oh," finally came out of his mouth. "You kept them safe."

"I just said that, didn't I?" Flemeth griped. "Not too swift, is he?"

"He's a Templar," Morrigan said.

"Former Templar," Alistair interjected.

"That explains a lot," said Flemeth.

"What does that mean, exactly?" Alistair demanded, scowling in confusion.

But Flemeth avoided the question by producing a stack of thick, folded papers and shoving them at the Warden. "Here, now. Be off with you, then. Don't have time to be lollygagging around; you're in such a rush."

Alistair stared in disbelief at the treaties. Bannon stepped forward to thank Flemeth, and Ser Jory echoed his words.

"What a nice boy," the old woman said, beaming at the knight. Then her face went blank and she looked away as if dismissing his existence. "So unimportant in the grand scheme of things," she muttered. She closed one eye and stuck her tongue in one cheek, peering at Bannon. The elf tried to look as if he didn't want to run away. "He's a cutie. You must think I'm a dotty old woman."

"I don't know," Bannon said carefully. "We've only just met."

"First impressions are always the strongest, aren't they?"

"Clever people can appear to be anything they want," he answered.

This must have pleased her, for she broke into a grin. "What a silver tongue he has! Very dangerous!" Bannon wasn't sure who she was talking to, but her attention seemed to focus on him again. "Are you ready to change the world?"

"Me? I... I'll do my best."

"That's the spirit!" The old woman clapped him on the arm, and her hand felt as hard and solid as a dragon's talon. "Well, didn't I say you were in a rush? What are you waiting for?"

"It's getting dark," Ser Jory said. Daveth just squeaked in fear.

Flemeth skewered them with one eye. "Did you want to stay here the night?"

"No!" they all chorused together.

"Didn't think so. Here, girl; take these poor lost waifs back home." She cackled disconcertingly again and turned to disappear back into the hut.

Morrigan sighed. "Yes, Mother."

...

Morrigan led them out a different way, the long way around the lake. The sun was down, only the western sky was lit. The lake reflected it and seemed to glow, but the ground and vegetation were but sooty shadows. The witch - or whatever she was - led them with a confident step. Bannon struggled to keep up. Strung out behind him, the humans stumbled and cursed and stubbed their toes on every rock and tree root.

The dark curtain of night drew across the sky, and stars peeped out faintly. Even the water grew black as pitch, but Morrigan didn't seem to mind. Perhaps she really did have cat's eyes.

Then someone pitched heavily into the dirt with a muffled oath. Bannon stopped and looked back. The humans were dark silhouettes against the dim landscape, helping each other up. "Wait!" Bannon called after the witch.

She turned back, and indeed her eyes were the only thing visible of her form. "What now?" she griped. "I thought you were in such a hurry to leave," she said mockingly.

"She's leading us to our doom!" Daveth whined. "Right over a cliff, she will! Or into a sinking pit."

"She is not," Alistair said. "We're still near the lake. Sorta. I think." Oh great, the guy who knew the way back was lost!

"We need a torch," Ser Jory said.

"Such babes in the woods. Why didn't you think of that?"

"We were supposed to be back before dark," Alistair said.

"And it never occurred to you that you might fail? Is that short-sightedness or just arrogance?"

"Are you going to help us get out of here or not?" Alistair snapped.

"If you're going to be ungrateful-!" Morrigan turned to Bannon. "'Tisn't all that dark. The stars are out. The elf can see fine. Can you not?"

Bannon moved a little closer to her, and lowered his voice. "Look, I know they are a pain. But you want to get rid of them as soon as possible, don't you? They can't go very fast bumbling around and tripping all over everything."

"Hmmm," she mused. "All right." She raised her right arm and hissed something in a strange tongue. A ball of glowing green mist appeared above her hand. She cast it aloft and it floated above her head, shining a wan green light upon the ground.

Bannon drew in a breath, but Daveth gasped in panic. "I told you, I told you! She's a witch she is! We should've run when we first laid eyes on her!"

Ser Jory and Alistair scrambled to their feet. The knight hissed, "Shut up! You really want to make her mad, now?" The Templar gripped his sword hilt tightly, but didn't draw it.

"By all means," Morrigan told them coldly; "if you wish to flee, do so now." She gestured behind them. "That direction is as good as any." She hooded her eyes and folded her arms across her midriff. "Those who wish to leave the Wilds may follow me." She turned and continued down the path. Somewhere out in the darkness, something made a harsh roaring call.

"What was that?" Jory asked, eyes round as saucers.

"Was that a bear?" Bannon asked.

"Could be," Morrigan said over her shoulder. "Marsh bears are rather small. But the mothers are taking their cubs out to forage this time of year. Best not to make them angry." She resumed walking, and the magical glowing orb bobbed along in her wake, taking the light with it.

"Come on," Bannon told his awestruck companions. Another bear growl convinced them to hurry after the witch.

"I'll protect you," he heard Ser Jory say to the pale Daveth. The thief seemed genuinely frightened. True, Morrigan was a very scary woman, with untold powers. But she and her mother were helping them, weren't they? They didn't have any reason to be killing Grey Wardens. Mysteriously spooky and evil was one thing, but elaborate charades? Why bother? Unless they were excessively bored out here all alone in the Wilds. It was enough to make anyone a little batty.

The group travelled in strained silence for quite some time. Then the witch stopped and collected her orb to herself, dimming its light.

"What's going on?" Alistair demanded, blinking in the near darkness.

"Look ahead," Morrigan said. "Do you not see the lights of your camp?"

They squinted and yes, there was an orange glow in the sky above the treeline. "Thank the Maker," Daveth gushed. He scurried forward along the path. The others followed with a bit more decorum.

Bannon turned to the witch. "Thank you, Morrigan," he said sincerely. "Are you going to be all right, returning on your own?"

"Of course," she said with a wry twist of her lips. She pressed the glowing light between her palms and it snuffed out instantly. Bannon blinked away the afterimage, and the witch had vanished.

"Right," Alistair said from slightly behind him. "Very creepy. You think she disappeared back to the swamp? Or maybe she was never here at all..."

Bannon rolled his eyes at the attempt to weave a ghost story. "No, I think she just turned invisible, and she can heeeeear you." He stretched the words out with an eerie quaver. Alistair shuddered and got a move on. With a shake of his head, Bannon followed.


	7. The Joining

(_Warnings: foul language_)

Daveth and Ser Jory continued ahead, eager to report in and get some dinner. Bannon and Alistair caught up with them at the Warden watchfire.

"Is everyone all right?" Duncan was asking them. "Where is-? Alistair!" The human's dark face brightened, and gladness filled his voice. "You're alive! Thank the Maker! When night fell, I feared the worst."

"No, we're all fine," the younger Warden assured his mentor. "But we've had the strangest encounter." He described the old woman in the Wilds, and her supposed daughter, along with some colourful embellishments from Daveth. "I think they're apostates," Alistair finished. "In fact, I know that Morrigan is." He seemed about to run off and - what? Tattle to the Templars?

Duncan held up a hand to forestall him. "Alistair, you're a Grey Warden now."

"But-"

"Templar business is no longer your concern."

"-They could be dangerous."

Duncan fixed him with a look. Alistair lowered his head. But like a dog with a bone, he just couldn't let go of it. "But apostates, so near the camp..."

Daveth jumped in with, "They're Witches of the Wilds. They lead travellers to their doom."

"Well, they didn't, did they?" Ser Jory grumbled at him in annoyance. "Those are just stories to scare little children."

Duncan rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I'm sure they've been there for many years. There's no reason to think they have any interest in harming us."

"But-"

"Alistair, _drop it_." The young Warden flinched as his master raised his voice.

"Yes, ser," he said quietly.

In the awkward silence that followed, Bannon said, "There was something fishy, though." Duncan turned to him with keen interest. Behind him, Bannon saw Alistair shoot him a look, just the briefest flash of jealousy. _Stuff it, shem_, Bannon thought; _I don't want to be your boss' Best Boy._ Aloud he said, "Flemeth - the old woman - said the magical wards on the chest had worn off a long time ago. But the chest was only broken recently."

"How recently?"

"A couple weeks." Bannon shrugged. "Not more than a month; maybe two on the outside."

Duncan tapped his lower lip with a forefinger. "It was about six weeks ago the armies began arriving here."

"So they took it to... what?" Alistair asked. "Hide them from the army?"

"It seems so." Duncan thoughtfully stroked his beard. "In any case, they delivered the treaties to us. The Grey Wardens accept aid wherever it can be found." He shot a look at Alistair. "And from whomever is willing to give it." Alistair squirmed like a little boy being scolded.

_Or whoever they can force into giving it_, Bannon thought, remembering his conscription.

Alistair began to turn the treaties over to Duncan, but the latter forestalled him. "Hold onto them; I'll look at them tomorrow. For now - was the first part of your mission also successful?"

"Yes, ser," Jory blurted avidly, as if he'd been happy and eager to go along with it the whole time. Duncan asked for the vials and the three recruits produced them. Bannon noticed that the Commander scored the corks with his thumbnail, marking each one differently. Ser Jory said, "Will that be all, ser?"

"Maker, I hope," Daveth added in decidedly un-military fashion. "I think I've got darkspawn blood in places the sun don't shine."

"And I'm starving," Bannon added.

"I'm afraid that will all have to wait," Duncan said. "The scouts have come in; we're expecting a battle tomorrow." His dark eyes flicked over them. "Your Joining will have to be tonight."

"Trust me," Alistair said, his glib tone betrayed by the worried look on his face. "You won't want to eat beforehand."

Duncan shot him a look, then said to the recruits, "Wash up quickly, then meet us behind the mages' section. There's a circular area there, with columns."

Bannon remembered that as the spot he'd first met Alistair. "I know where it is."

Duncan nodded. "Good. You have ten minutes. Alistair, you're with me." He turned and left, his protege shadowing him.

Daveth predictably shot off into the camp to get into who-knows-what. Bannon and Ser Jory headed towards the nearest rainbarrel. They didn't have anything to say to each other, so each kept to his own thoughts.

...

"How are they shaping up, Alistair?" Duncan asked as they moved briskly through the camp to prepare the ceremony. The accoutrements were in Duncan's tent, so they went there first to retrieve the small chest.

"Well, I'm not sure. I really don't know how you 'sense' who is or isn't strong enough."

"What did I tell you about trusting your judgement?"

"Once I develop some judgement," Alistair hedged. Duncan sighed forcefully, and Alistair bit the inside of his lip, hard. It hurt him to dissapoint his mentor like this. But what could he do? Pretend confidence? Swagger around all cocky and carefree while inside he was nothing? Nothing but the stupid kennel-boy, probably dumber than the dogs he tended. He still felt stung by the attention Duncan had paid to that elf. No, ignore that oaf Alistair as he tries to say those witches are dangerous. What does that idiot know? Oh, but someone else says something, of course Duncan listens.

Alistair mentally kicked himself in the arse. Several times. _Stop acting like a big baby! You're a Templar - a Grey Warden!_ he corrected quickly.

Duncan opened the ceremonial chest to check the contents, and tuck the stone vials of blood into a compartment beside the chalice. "Just report on your observations of the mission," he told Alistair. His voice was low and calm as always. Not a trace of ire or dissapointment or impatience.

"Right. Um... I'm not too sure about that Ser Jory," Alistair began. "He's a good fighter and all, but... he complained a lot. Especially about how dangerous everything was."

"Does he seem cowardly?"

"Not as such," Alistair said, sucking thoughtfully at his lower lip. "Anyone in their right mind would be scared. It's not like he tried to run away or anything. But I think I see what you mean about the others knowing more about 'real' fighting. I'm sure they've been in a few scrapes."

Duncan nodded. "Did any of them show any leadership potential?"

Alistair blew a puff of breath through his cheeks, slowly. "Well, Ser Jory took charge on account of his rank. The other two didn't seem to care or want it." Not that Alistair blamed them! "But they don't get along with Jory. I swear, I thought they darkspawn were going to sneak up and eat them while they were griping at each other."

Duncan bit his lip and muttered a curse.

"They got sorted," Alistair assured him quickly. "We fought well together. I guess they disliked each other less than being killed." He thought a moment. "Daveth seemed the most steady," he said. The rogue had a sense of humor, too. That was always good in Alistair's book. "Um... do you have to use the exact blood they collected? I'm worried about the little guy."

"Little guy?" Duncan quirked a brow. "He's not little, he's an elf."

"Well, you know what I mean."

"I do, but you'd better stop calling him that."

"All right, all right. Just... It's heartsblood. He took it from a hurlock mage."

Duncan's brows went up. "He killed one of the alphas?" Alistair nodded. "By himself?" The brows went up another notch.

"Yes. He saved our asses, too. We were caught in a trap, in the middle of a grease spell, about to be barbequed."

Duncan rubbed his beard in thought, staring speculatively at the stone vial bearing the X mark. Alistair followed his gaze, waiting silently. Finally, Duncan shook his head. "We can't play at being masters of fate," he said softly. He closed the lid of the box and brushed his hand over it. "Was there anything else?"

"Only the funny bits," Alistair said. "Those I can tell you over a pint after dinner."

Duncan chuckled quietly. "The new Wardens can brag about their exploits, too." Alistair didn't reply. To talk about any other outcome was bad luck.

They exited Duncan's tent. One of the senior Grey Wardens, Berkely, was standing outside. He looked at the chest, then into Duncan's eyes. Duncan nodded once. That was all the communication the two veterans needed. Berkely nodded back solemnly, and went to speak to the Wardens.

...

Daveth surprised Bannon by not being late. The three stood nervously awaiting the Warden Commander and this Joining ritual. "I heard a rumor," Daveth whispered, "that in part of this ceremony, they make us drink blood."

"Oh, come off it," Ser Jory grumbled. "You and your wild fireside tales. Next you'll tell us they'll make us strip naked and paint ourselves blue."

Daveth wagged a finger at him. "Why did they have us collect darkspawn blood, then? Wasn't just a lark."

"We can't drink that," Jory said, aghast. "Alistair said it was deadly."

"A true test of manly prowess," Daveth insisted. He winked at Bannon. "Grow hair on your chest, it will."

"It's ridiculous," the knight insisted, his face going pasty in the torch light. "I'm not drinking any poison or blood or whatever you have! I didn't sign up for this!"

"Are you blubbering again?"

"I'm not blubbering!" Jory snapped. "I just don't like this stuff and nonsense - sending us into danger for no reason. Poisoning us or who knows what! You might not care if you die, seeing as your life isn't worth anything, but I have a wife, and a baby on the way."

"That's a cheap shot," Bannon said.

Daveth stepped up. "No, he's right. I'll admit it. I spent my whole life stealing and lying, cheating my friends, ratting out my partners. When I was walking to that scaffold, I realized I was going to die and nobody cared." He licked his lips briefly. "But now I have a chance to make a difference in the world. And I don't mind dying for it. You've seen those darkspawn up close," he said directly to Jory. "Wouldn't you give your life to save that pretty wife of yours from them? Or so that your baby can grow up in a world free of the Blight?"

Ser Jory folded his arms, backing down from the strenght of Daveth's convictions. "I don't mind dying in battle. But expecting us to drink poison?"

Bannon said, "All the other Wardens have. Haven't they?" He looked around for Alistair. He ought to know; and he was a new Warden, not hardened into their traditions and set in their ways. The elf could wheedle information out of him.

A moment later, Alistair did arrive, but he was accompanied by Duncan, precluding any more speculation. The recruits remained silent as the Commander placed a small chest on an old altar, opened it and laid out the ritual chalice and flask, and the three stone vials of darkspawn blood.

Duncan turned to them. In the darkness, his somber voice seemed to take on a greater weight. "You three have passed your tests, and are ready to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens. There is no turning back."

Bannon felt the muscles along his spine tensing in nervous anticipation. He fidgeted slightly, beside Alistair. Jory did so too, and he kept shooting glances at the chalice on the altar as Duncan spoke. Even Daveth lost his cocky attitude.

"Since the time of the first Blight, the Grey Wardens have stood between the world and the darkspawn. In peace, vigilance; in war, victory; in death, sacrifice." Duncan carefully uncorked the flask and poured what looked like very dark wine into the chalice. With it, went the contents of the first vial. "Since that dark time, Wardens have taken the Taint within themselves. We drink the darkspawn blood that we may become strong against them." The Commander lifted his head, looking at the stars far above. "We do not have grand ceremonies, but we always say a few words before the Joining. Alistair?"

The younger Warden folded his hands and bowed his head. Bannon had never seen the jocose human look so serious. The elf clenched his hands, indeed all the muscles in his body, to suppress a tremor. "Join us, brothers and sisters," Alistair said in solemn prayer. "Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And know that one day, we shall join you."

_The other Wardens did this_, Bannon tried to reassure himself. _Alistair did this._ It was going to be fine. In the breathless silence, he could distinctly hear Ser Jory lick his lips and swallow nervously.

Duncan turned and lifted the silver chalice in both hands. "Daveth," he intoned; "Join us."

The other two stepped back reflexively as the rogue moved forward. He swallowed his own nervousness and took the chalice. He gulped the contents down quickly. The result was immediate.

He flung his head back, his eyes and mouth open wide. A strangled scream was all that issued from his throat. Duncan rescued the chalice from Daveth's limp hands as he collapsed, choking, to his knees, then lay convulsing on the floor.

Bannon backed away further, and ran into Alistair. The human gripped his arm as if afraid he would bolt. And right now, that was sounding like a good idea.

"I'm so sorry, Daveth," Duncan said softly. The scruffy thief twitched once more then went deathly still. The Warden Commander refilled the chalice, breaking the seal on the second stone vial. "Ser Jory," he said, turning to the Highever knight. "Join us."

Jory tore his gaze away from Daveth's body, and his eyes snapped to the silver vessel in Duncan's hands. "You poisoned him!" he blurted. "You- you can't! I have a family. I can't die!" He pulled his greatsword free.

Duncan kept his dark eyes fixed on Jory's. He went into a fighting crouch. "Take the chalice, Jory."

Bannon moved forward to do something, but Alistair kept a firm grip on his arm. He turned to the shem with a glare for him to let go. But Alistair only shook his head.

"I have a wife! A baby! You never said I'd have to- you never said anything about this!"

The knight lunged, and Duncan dodged the clumsy blow. The chalice was dashed to the ground, its contents spreading a red stain across the ancient stones. In a trice, Duncan was under Jory's guard, a dagger planted in the man's stomach. "I'm so sorry, Jory," the Warden said quietly as he eased the man's body to the ground against the low wall.

Duncan retrieved his dagger, and closed Jory's bulging eyes. Then, his face expressionless as stone, he scooped up the chalice and returned to the altar. He set down the bloody blade and uncorked the flask. Alistair nudged Bannon, and the two skirted Daveth's cooling body to approach the altar.

"Alistair, listen," the elf said quietly.

Duncan said, "There is no turning back." He opened the third stone vial and dumped the contents into the vessel. Then he took it and came forward.

"I'm not going to try to weasel out of this," Bannon told him firmly. "Just let me say one thing to Alistair." He didn't bother waiting for permission. No doubt Duncan would rather stick him instead. So he turned to the Warden gripping his arm and said, "Look, in my tent... There's a letter I was writing, to my father. If I... If I don't make it, can you see he gets it?"

Alistair blinked in surprise. He loosened his grip as well. "I will."

"His name is Cyrian," Bannon told him. "He lives in Denerim, in the alienage. Well, he's a carpenter; just ask around, people know him."

The human looked uncomfortable. Then he forced a smile. "You'll be able to deliver it yourself," he said. "Don't worry." Alistair nodded encouragingly.

Bannon turned back to Duncan and held his hands out for the chalice. "Bannon, Join us," the Commander spoke the ritual words. The elf looked at the dark crimson liquid a moment. _Just like standing up to a shem nobleman_, he thought. _You know you're probably going to die, but you just can't do_ nothing. Best not to think about it, he tossed it back.

The hot blood burned his throat, and he screamed. Blackness fell upon him like a ravening beast. He didn't even feel his body hit the flagstones.

...

Fire engulfed him, wrapping him in heat, but it shed no light. The black flames roared around him, screaming the whisper of a word: _BUURRRN!_ His blood boiled in answer; hot rage flowed through him. His face twisted in a snarl; his eyes opened. He saw the world dimly, as through a blackened glass. The world was burning.

Red flames lit the horizon, limned the underside of the blackened sky. As if in a dream, or carried on the wings of a dragon, Bannon flew over the city. Gouts of flame devoured the buildings. Shems ran, screaming, barely audible over the rushing roar of the fire. It encircled them like a wall, passed over them like a wind, leaving nothing behind but ash. _BUURRRRNN!_ Now the shems would pay! Bannon stretched out his hands, and the dark fire encircling them seemed to urge the flames below to spread faster, to burn hotter. Yes!

The fires swept over the city, over the walls, and swirled around the great tree. _BUUURRRRNN!_ A finger of ice touched Bannon's heart. That was Denerim - his home! My family!

"NOOO!" Bannon jerked upright, yanked out of the flames and back into consciousness. "No!" He thrashed around as if waking from a nightmare.

"Easy, easy!" Alistair tried to catch one of his arms, calm him down. "You're all right. It's all right!" Bannon froze, then looked around, eyes wide in panic. He panted for breath. "That was quick," Alistair said. "How do you feel?"

The elf lowered his face to one hand. He took another shaky breath. Alistair kept one hand on his arm, helping to ground him, to come back to himself. Bannon swallowed thickly. "My mouth feels like it's..." He put his hand to his mouth, scraped his tongue off with it. His glove and fingers came away smeared with dark blood. He gagged slightly and scrambled to his feet, wiping his tongue off again. He had to get the oily, sick taste out of his mouth!

"Whoa, easy! Don't sick up." Alistair watched him worriedly. "What happens if he throws up after the Joining? Does that count?"

"I don't feel sick," Bannon growled. "Just..." Duncan got him a dipper of water. The elf took it gratefully. He went to the edge of the ruins and rinsed his mouth out, spitting over the side into some bracken. How did he feel? He couldn't describe it. How would you feel if you found a doorway in your home and suddenly you had three times as much living space as you'd ever known? How would you feel if you suddenly became aware that your shadow wasn't just an empty shape on the ground, but another part of you, an extension of your self? There just seemed to be... well, more of him. Bannon shrugged. "Am I taller?" He moved back over by the Wardens, relinquishing the dipper. No, he was still staring at the middle of their chests. "I don't know, I just feel..."

"Different?" Alistair supplied helpfully.

"Yeah."

"You have mastered the Taint within you," Duncan said. "Congratulations. You are one of us, now."

"I hope the rest of this ritual involves getting drunk and passing out again." Bannon spit on the ground.

"After we tend to our fallen comrades," the Commander said, sounding older all of a sudden. "Bannon, you should take any equipment you need from Daveth. I think he would be honored for you to have it."

Jealous, more like. Bannon's eyes prickled - it must be the stench from the blood. It still coated his mouth, making him want to spit again. He crouched down by the contorted body and relieved Daveth of his sword and long dagger, and his beloved Melinda. He remembered joking with the rogue about inheriting his stuff. Well, here it was. Bannon shook himself. This wasn't the time to be maudlin about some shem he'd barely known! The thief also had an assortment of trinkets and coins, and a key. Ah, the key to the mages' storage chest. Bannon pocketed it.

Daveth's armor would get sold back to the Quartermaster. Cleaned and repaired, then sold off to the next man to use it. Bannon piled it neatly, then arranged Daveth's limbs in a restful pose.

"I'm glad you made it," Alistair said softly, coming up beside him. "We are still so few. I was the only one to survive my Joining." Bannon nodded. Alistair handed him a small locket on a chain. "One of the things we do," the human explained, "we keep some of the blood. As a reminder of those who didn't make it."

Bannon looked at it. It wasn't fancy, of course. But he'd never had jewelry before. He slipped the chain over his head. "Thank you." Suddenly, his scalp prickled, and the fine hairs all along his arms stood on end. Something was coming. Something... big. He straightened and looked towards the ramp, where the feeling was coming from. Alistair rose too, and looked in the same direction. With a slight nod, he indicated Bannon to follow him over. The Grey Wardens were there.

Unbidden, they came up the ramp. When Bannon stood in their midst, he felt engulfed in something. Something bigger than he was. Something stronger. It was almost like being submerged in a powerful tidepool, but instead of feeling like a helpless victim, drowning; he felt as one with the tide.

A grizzled human extended his hand. "Berkely," he said. "Welcome, Brother." Bannon gripped his forearm in a warrior's clasp. He could feel the man's strength, almost as if it were flowing through him.

One by one, he met the Grey Wardens. The once aloof strangers welcomed him like family. He met them all, the men and women, he looked into their eyes, he learned their names. He was home among them; he was one of them. Completing the circle, he returned to Alistair and Duncan. Alistair clasped his hand warmly. "Welcome, Brother."

Duncan extended his hand and waited. Bannon bit down on his bitterness towards the man. He gripped Duncan's arm, and the Warden responded firmly. "Welcome, Brother. You are one of us, now." Duncan looked past him and addressed the Grey Wardens. "We honor those who have fallen. Daveth, and Ser Jory Caufield, knight of Highever." The Grey Wardens moved to tend to the bodies. Duncan said, "Alistair, Berkely, please see to this. I'm afraid I must be present at the king's war council. Bannon," he added, turning to the elf, "please accompany me."

He didn't wait for a response. Bannon shrugged to himself and followed.

...

"I hope you understand now," Duncan said quietly, "my decision to leave your cousin where he was."

Bannon clenched his teeth. "I don't see how he has a better chance in prison."

Duncan stopped and turned to him, fixing him with a hard look. "Do you actually believe Soris would have survived that?" He gestured back the way they'd come. "Do you?"

Again, Bannon bit back an argument and took a moment to think about it. Soris, and the nervous quaver in his voice at the wedding. Soris angrily defending his sister. Soris, beads of sweat on his brow as he levelled a crossbow at the shem nobles. Soris would do the right thing, if Bannon were there to help him. But could he fight darkspawn? Could he drink the Tainted blood and survive? "No. Perhaps not," Bannon said, finally. "And if he refused to try, you'd just kill him, is that it?"

"That was necessary. A pledge to join the Wardens is a binding oath."

"Join or die?"

"Yes. Once the Joining ceremony has begun -"

"You could have talked him into it," Bannon interrupted. "_I_ could have, if your boy Alistair hadn't interferred."

"That is not the way of things. The chalice must be taken by the will of the recruit."

"I suppose there are different rules, then, for the conscripted?" Bannon snarled bitterly. "Because as I recall, I didn't have any choice in the matter."

"I gave you a choice," Duncan said, fighting to keep his voice level.

"A bullshit choice! 'Choose to join the Wardens, or choose to have your ass dragged into it.' What the hell is that?"

Duncan rubbed a hand over his face. "I thought you understood what I was offering you. You did accept it."

"Yeah." Bannon looked down, deflated. "I guess I did."

"The way of the Wardens is a hard one. We need to be so, in order to survive." Survive the Blight, or survive the politics and decrepitness of not being needed for over four hundred years? Bannon didn't ask. Survival was survival. Duncan turned to continue along their collonaded path. "We can discuss this further and argue all night if you wish," he said. "But we are going to be late to the council."

"I haven't had a chance to get cleaned up. I reek, and I'm covered in blood."

"This is a war council, not the Queen's garden party. Let them see - and smell - the reality of what we face."

Bannon followed the human. "I don't know why you need me, anyway."

"I chose you because you are good at reading people. I just want you to observe the king, the general, the arls and banns, and tell me what you think afterwards."

...

A trestle table had been set up in what had once been a great hall in ages past. Torches in free-standing iron brackets lit the area, and the table itself was full of candles, illuminating the map that lay upon it. Elven servants scuttled in and out innocuously - trimming a candle wick, or bringing a bann a mug of tea. Duncan and Bannon approached swiftly.

Loghain, the imposing general, was growling about some arls and a teyrn who were conspicuously absent from the army. One of them had apparently sent his men with no one to lead them. King Cailen brushed it off lightly. On the eve of battle, he still sounded like a kid about to open a Feastday gift.

They broke off as the Warden Commander and his charge came upon them. "Your Majesty," Duncan said with a swift bow. "I apologize for not being here sooner."

"No apologies necessary, Duncan," Cailen said with a smile. He turned to Bannon. "I understand congratulations are in order, my friend."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Bannon bowed, feeling a bit flushed by the royal attention. Get ahold of yourself! He's just a big, stuck-up shem noble, except he's bigger and more stuck-up.

Yet the king clasped his hand, unheedful of the dried blood on Bannon's glove. Loghain wrinkled his nose, veteran campaigner that he was, but the king smiled. "It is good to see a son of Denerim in the Grey Wardens."

Bannon felt the eyes of one of the powerful men at the table piercing him. It was Arl Urien. _Shit!_ He kept his focus on the king, as was only proper. "You can count on me, Your Majesty."

"Good!" King Cailen nodded and turned back to Duncan. "This is the outline for tomorrow's battle plan," he said, ushhering the Warden to the table. Bannon took the opportunity to move back into a shadow of the torches and watch silently.

"You and I will lead the forces of the Grey Wardens and the army," King Cailen was saying to Duncan. He bent over the map, pointing. "We will hold them here. And when the darkspawn have committed their forces, Loghain will sweep in from the hills with the rest of the army. They'll be crushed!"

Loghain said, "It is reckless of you to be with the forces trapped there in the pass."

"Nonsense. I will be with the Grey Wardens."

The old general sighed and muttered something about Maric. "Very well," he said aloud. "It is a sound plan. Since Arl Urien is the only one of rank who deigned to show up...," Loghain's disgust at the missing nobles was clear; "He can lead the forces of Denerim and Highever at the king's back. The rest of you will follow my banner." He began assigning positions on the map to the various banns.

Great, thought Bannon. Tomorrow morning, he'd be with the Grey Wardens, battling for their lives against darkspawn. He felt a little queasy, and not from the Tainted blood he'd drunk. From what he understood, the small contingent of Wardens and men would lure the darkspawn into the pass between the two cliffs and hold them at the pallisade protecting the camp. There would be nowhere for them to run. If they broke, darkspawn would swarm into the camp itself. No, they were the bait in the trap. Bait usually got eaten. Yet Loghain had agreed to allow the king to fight there. Unhappily, but he'd agreed. So there must be something to this plan after all.

Now Cailen was arguing with a mage about a signal fire. Bannon paid more attention. Loghain's troops, hidden in the hills, would not be able to see the battle in the pass. A signal fire was laid atop the Tower of Ishal. Once lit, the general would know to attack.

"One mage can easily light such a fire. Soldiers are not needed." It was the mage Alistair had been 'harassing.' The grumpy one.

King Cailen vetoed him. "We will need all the mages on the battlefield." Hell yeah, Bannon thought. Why waste a mage casting one fireball on a pile of sticks when he could be casting a whole lot of them on the darkspawn! Cailen turned to Duncan. "I want Alistair on this mission." What the hell? Why waste a Grey Warden on it, either?

Duncan blinked once, the only sign he might be startled. "Yes, Your Majesty." Bannon frowned in thought. Why would the king care which Warden was sent? In fact, how would a king from Denerim know the name of a kennel-boy from Redcliffe? But Alistair was the newest Warden, and the king clearly worshipped the order. He must've been following the young man's career.

It was getting late, and Bannon's stomach was hollow. Imminent death or not, he had barely eaten since breakfast. Without much ado, the war council broke up. Bannon followed Duncan back towards camp, when they were brought up short by a call behind them.

"Warden!"

They turned. As Bannon had feared, Arl Urien approached. _Shit-shit-shit!_ He bit his tongue and schooled his expression.

"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," the arl said solicitously.

"Bannon, my lord." He bowed.

"And... you're from Denerim?" Urien wrung his hands. "Do you know anything? I've only had a message from the city guard. My son..." He bit his lip, his eyes wet. It wouldn't do for an arl to cry. "Do you know what happened?"

Bannon gave the arl as sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, my lord. Of course we heard the rumors, but we were preparing to leave with the army." He shrugged helplessly. "I'm afraid we don't know any more than anyone else. I truly am sorry for your loss."

The arl clenched his jaw and nodded, regaining his self-control. "They tell me they've apprehended someone they believe is responsible."

"I hope they've captured the right man," Bannon said carefully.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, just... the way it was worded. They didn't say they captured the murderer." Bannon shrugged. "Just 'apprehended someone they believe is responsible'?" He laid a slight emphasis on the word 'believe.' "It sounds like something the guards say when they've failed to find the true criminal, but grab just anyone to keep their lord from blaming them. I'd hate to see an innocent man executed, and the real murderer go free."

The arl's brow wrinkled and his eyes hardened. "I will not rest until I get to the bottom of this! Justice for my son will be served, and I will have the truth." He nodded. "Thank you, Warden." Then he left to return to his encampment.

Your damned son got his justice served, Bannon growled inwardly to himself. Outwardly, he showed no sign of his thoughts. He did, however, allow himself to release a pent-up breath. At least the arl wouldn't let them execute Soris until he got back to Denerim to question him. Bannon hoped.

"That," Duncan said quietly, "was most impressive."

Bannon shot him a look. "And what are you going to tell him?"

"Why would I tell him anything?" The Grey Warden shrugged and continued, Bannon in his wake. "Whatever your past, it doesn't matter now. You're a Grey Warden; all that is behind you."

...

They returned to the Warden tents. Thankfully, there was indeed a 'ceremony' for getting drunk after the Joining. There was also food aplenty. Bannon and Alistair ate most of it. In fact, Bannon ate enough to burst. They told the story of Bannon 'watering' the ash wraith at least three times, each rendition more embellished than the last.

Finally, Duncan had to remind them that there was to be a battle on the morrow, and the rest of the army, at least, needed some sleep.

When Bannon woke up sometime the next morning, his head was fuzzy and aching. Alistair was insistantly and annoyingly calling him out of his tent. Finally, the elf threw his blanket off and yelled that he was awake.

He sat up and rubbed his head, trying to remember how he'd gotten to his tent at all. Had he been kissing some of the women? His eyes popped open and he looked around quickly. No, no women in evidence. He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Shem women. He wondered if they were very different from elven women.

He dug around for his clothes. His armor still hadn't been cleaned. He grimaced and unwound the bandage from his arm, and to his surprise, the wounds were no more than fading pink lines on his skin. Alistair told him later that was one of the benefits of being a Grey Warden. With plenty of food and some rest, they healed very quickly.

Bannon noted his crate of goods to be sold to the Quartermaster had been augmented with several vials of potions. Oh, right. He'd taken a late night drunken detour from the jakes through the mage enclave and found that storage chest. He didn't know why he'd done it; it was a stupid thing to do. But he'd been drunk and angry at... he didn't remember what, but it was unfair the Warden recruits had died. Anyway, it was too late to worry about the pilfered goods, now. If the Quartermaster asked any questions, they'd come from a slaver camp they'd looted in the Wilds.

After washing up, Alistair dragged Bannon to Duncan's tent. There was food there for breakfast, and Bannon embarassed himself by shovelling in almost as Alistair. Duncan asked for Bannon's observations on General Loghain and King Cailen, but the elf wasn't sure what he could tell him. Did they seem to be getting along? Did Cailen heed the general's wisdom? Bannon gave his impressions, then asked about Loghain's muttering about Maric. Duncan explained it was a complaint about Cailen being reckless like his father. It was an old - and quite long - story.

Then Bannon asked about the Grey Wardens being bait and getting eaten in the trap. Alistair assured him that the Grey Wardens were worth twenty men apiece against darkspawn. He went on to describe being in battle against them - a real battle, as a full-fledged Grey Warden. He sounded almost as excited as King Cailen.

Bannon shot a glance at Duncan. Clearly, the commander hadn't told Alistair he wasn't going to be with the others. Duncan looked uncomfortable as Alistair rambled on until he had to stop for breath. Bannon feigned not to notice. Duncan explained to Alistair what his duties were to be in the upcoming battle.

"What?" Alistair yelped. "I won't be in the fighting? That's not fair!" His disappointed puppy look turned into a scowl. "Oh, I know what this is!" He suddenly bit back what he was going to say. Then he said, "I'm a Grey Warden! Not some... fire-tending... fire tender! You can't keep me out of this battle! Send Bannon! He's now the juniormost."

Duncan kept his voice calm, but firm. "The king asked for you specifically. This is a royal order."

"But..." Alistair subsided with a groan behind clenched teeth.

"Bannon, you will accompany him."

"I don't need a babysitter to look after me while I light some fire!" Alistair said hotly. "What do you think? I'll burn my fingers or something?"

"That's enough," Duncan snapped. "You will await my signal at the top of the Tower of Ishal, and you will then light the beacon. Do you understand these orders as I've given them to you?"

"Yes, ser," Alistair said glumly. Quietly, Bannon echoed him.

"You'll have approximately one hour after the battle is joined," Duncan told them. And with that, they were dismissed.


	8. The Broken Tower

(_Warnings: foul language_)

The day had begun grey, the sun hidden behind piled clouds. The camp atop the cliffs of Ostagar was quiet - subdued. The regular army in the ravine below was already on the move, getting into position. Loghain and the king supervised. For the elite troops who would fight within the pass, they had to deal with the agony of waiting.

Bannon thought he'd go insane. He attcked his leather amor with a brush, flaking off a pile of blood red dust. Some of the other Wardens played cards. They didn't bet, because no one could concentrate enough to play well. Every time an elven servant or messenger ran by, they all looked up, anticipating their ordres to move.

"You're going to wear a hole in that, you scrub it any more." Bannon looked up to see Berkely standing over him. "You shot that new bow of yours yet?" He meant Daveth's bow, of course. Bannon shook his head, and Berkely told him to bring it.

He led Bannon to the great hall where the war council had been. Some straw dummies were propped up against the table, or tied to the empty torch brackets. Bannon realized it had been Berkely's bow Alistair had borrowed for him. "Sorry about your bow," he apologized.

"Better my bow than your neck." Berkley shrugged. "Won't be needing it in the battle anyway. Besides, I just borrowed Gerald's. I trust," he said, fixing the elf with a mock dire look, "that you at least brought back all my arrows."

"Oh, no," Bannon said, looking very sincere. "There were several crooked and broken ones in your quiver. I took those out for you."

Berkley laughed. He strung his borrowed bow, fitted an arrow to it, and lobbed it easily at the targets.

Bannon tested Daveth's bow. It was bigger than he was used to, a bit awkward to draw, but he handled it easily enough. Sighting at the dummies by the table, he couldn't help but think of Arl Urien. If he could just put this arrow through the Arl of Denerim's neck, all his worries would be put to rest. Murder the arl to cover up the murder of his son.

The bow twitched in his hands, and the arrow flew wide, clattering to the stone somewhere beyond the table. Bannon cursed. Berkely 'tch'ed at him. "How can you be so calm at a time like this?" Bannon demanded. He wasn't even going to be in the battle, and his nerves were jangling.

"Tensing up makes the bow shake," Berkley said, lining up another shot. His breathing was slow and even. He exhaled and let fly. The arrow thunked into the head of the dummy on the left, and the straw man slumped to the ground from the impact. Wryly, Bannon noted that dummy had been where Loghain had stood. "Concentrate on the bow," Berkley said. "It relaxes me, anyway."

...

The day wore on, and Bannon cursed the slowness of war. It began to drizzle, and as the noon hour passed, it got even darker, the clouds looming thickly.

The messenger came, and with a shout, the Wardens burst into activity. They were gone in the blink of an eye it seemed. Bannon found Alistair. The human was in a foul mood. He kept griping to Bannon, but the elf ignored him. He paced in his own agitation, for a thought had occurred to him.

He could request an audience with the king. He was a Grey Warden now, he was somebody. After the battle, the king would grant it. King Cailen would listen to him. Bannon would explain about Vaughn, and all his 'entertainments.' Explain about the wedding, his fiancee', his cousin. Yes, he'd confess to killing Vaughn, and beg the king to pardon Soris. Cailen would listen! He liked elves.

Bannon chewed at a thumbnail. Did he? Or did Cailen just smile and act friendly so Bannon would like him? The king never cared about what went on in the alienage before. Shit! All those smiles and empty words, a simple handshake, and Bannon was fawning all over the shem like a lapdog!

Dammit, but what if Cailen were sincere? He certainly believed in a dream world where Kings and Wardens vanquished archdemons together. Why not a brotherhood of elves and men? Bannon turned to ask Alistair about the king. The other new Warden had been here longer, he must know something. But Alistair was still scowling, sulking like a child. Bannon sighed in irritation.

Lightning cracked behind the ruined tower, and rain poured more heavily from the blackened sky. Something swept over the area - not the wind, not a sound, and not exactly a feeling - but Bannon knew, in his blood and his bones, the battle had been joined.

A horn sounded, and the archers lining the ancient bridge loosed a thick volley into the gorge below. The floor was nearly obscured in mist and rain... or was that the dark miasma of the Blight?

"Let's go," Alistair said. He shook rain off his helmet and ran forward behind the lines of bowmen. Bannon followed closely.

Suddenly, an orange glow illuminated the bridge before them. It grew, like the light of the rising sun. Bannon skidded to a halt. "Alistair!" he cried out in warning.

The fireball impacted the bridge, tearing away at the stone railing. Several archers were struck by the flames, their burned bodies throw back from the impact point. Alistair was knocked off his feet. He skidded a few feet and crunched against the opposite stone rail.

Heart in his mouth, Bannon ran to him. Thankfully, the fool shem was only stunned. Bannon helped him to his feet.

"Mages!" Alistair gasped.

"Shit!"

The sky in the west glowed orange again. Alistair darted forward, but Bannon yanked him back as the next fireball skimmed the bridge, leaving the stones intact, but burning everything - and everyone - upon them.

Bannon shoved Alistair forward. The Grey Wardens ignored the screams of the wounded and dying. If they got killed before the beacon was lit...!

Fireballs impacted the bridge as they ran and dodged. Were the darkspawn aiming at _them_? Bannon pushed into a sprint at the end of the bridge. Another impact threw him to the unforgiving stone, Alistair beside him. Their breath was knocked out of them, but they scrambled forward like frantic crabs, afraid of another fireball hitting them where they lay.

They gained the solid ground on the southern cliff and stood panting for breath beneath the shelter of some pines. Suddenly, the trees burst into flame with a fearsome whoosh.

"They _are_ shooting at us!" Bannon yelled crazily, eyes wide.

"Shit!" Alistair agreed.

The two Wardens ran for the tower.

...

They cut left onto the path leading to the Tower of Ishal, skirted around a stand of trees, and came to an abrupt halt. Instead of the empty doorway they were expecting, they found a battle. Six men, it looked like, were being torn apart by darkspawn. Alistair began to charge past Bannon.

"Hold it!" the elf barked. He pulled his bow out.

"I have to do something!" Alistair protested. "They're- ...dead." The darkspawn, a collection of hurlocks and genlocks, turned on the two Grey Wardens and ran at them. "Here they come!"

"_Hold!_" Bannon raised the bow and fired, and again as fast as he could. This bow was a lot more powerful than the other. He dropped two of the spawn and crippled a third. "Now go!"

Alistair sprang at them with a roar. Bannon shouldered his bow and pulled out his sword and dagger. He moved to Alistair's side, and they cut at the darkspawn with a fury. More darkspawn appeared to join the fray, but the Grey Wardens were not alone. A crossbow bolt thudded into a genlock's shoulder. In a few minutes, the creatures were all dead.

A guardsman came up to them, a young elven mage in tow.

"What's going on?" Alistair demanded. "How did darkspawn get up here?" And so quickly, Bannon thought.

The soldier shook his head. "We don't know. They just appeared all of a sudden, coming out of the tower. It's overrun!"

"What happened to the cliff patrols?" Bannon asked.

"We haven't seen anyone else."

Alistair gripped the man by his hauberk. "We _need_ to get to the top of that tower and signal Loghain's troops."

The soldier licked his lips, but nodded. "Yes, ser."

Alistair was already turning to the mage. "You. Do you know any healing spells?"

"N-no, ser. S-some protection."

"Cast them now."

The mage nodded and did so, gesturing at the three fighters as he wove the words of magic. His curly hair clung damply to his brow. His hands shook, and he clenched his staff with a white-knuckled grip.

"Don't worry," Bannon told him. "We're Grey Wardens. Stay behind us, you'll be safe." Alistair shot him a doubtful look, but the words had the intended effect on the mage. He stopped shaking and firmed his resolve.

They headed into the broken tower.

...

The place was infested with pockets of darkspawn around every corner. The small group fought their way to the top. By some miracle, they all made it, torn and bloodied, but alive. The tower top was open, but bore a roof. A pile of oil-soaked wood stood in the center.

They made for it with haste, but a hulking monster stepped between them and their goal. It was a giant, thick-limbed and man-shaped, crowned by hard black horns. It roared at them, spraying spittle. Then it lowered its head and charged.

"Look out!" Bannon yelled, diving aside. Alistair jumped the other way and the thing rushed past them like a maddened bull. Its long ebony horns hit the mage. Bannon never knew his name, but he'd been bravely trying to cast a spell when he'd been gored and tossed aside, his innards trailing like red ropes.

The giant ogre swiped at the guardsman next. It grabbed him in one hand and yanked him off the ground. "No!" Alistair yelled. He ran full tilt and slammed his shield into the beast's leg. The ogre threw the soldier to the floor with a sickening crunch. It struck at Alistair, who gamely engaged it, trying to cut the grasping hand without losing his sword.

The huge darkspawn had its back to Bannon. Perfect! He sprinted to it and sank both blades into the back of its left leg. Hell, that was practically as high as he could reach! It bellowed and twisted to look back. Bannon pulled his blades free in preparation of cutting it again. It kicked, and a hard foot the size of a handcart slammed into him. He flew backwards and landed on the rough stones.

"We've surely missed Duncan's signal," Alistair yelled. "Light the beacon!" He cried out as the ogre knocked him off his feet.

First, Bannon had to wait for his ribcage to remember how to expand again. He rolled painfully onto his side and set his weapons down. He had flint in his belt pouch. Hands shaking, he pulled it out, grabbed his dagger, and struck sparks from it. The tiny motes of light drifted to th soaked wood and winked out. Dammit! There had to be tinder, or a fire-starter! He shoved his hand under the edge of the woodpile and pulled it back. Yes, there was oil splashed on the floor. He smeared some out in a line and struck more sparks. The oil flared, and he jumped back to avoid setting himself on fire.

He didn't wait to see the results; he could hear Alistair and the monster fighting, and the human was the one making all the pained noises. The elf snatched up his sword and ran behind the ogre again. This time, to avoid being kicked, he wrapped his arms and legs around its treetrunk of a shin and held on for dear life. He sank both blades into the flesh up to the hilt. The sword he left in as an anchor, the dagger he pulled out to stab and cut, repeatedly attacking the darkspawn flesh. Black blood gushed out.

The ogre howled in pain and tried to turn, to kick, to shake him off, but he grittted his teeth and held on gamely. As it twisted, it left one flank open. Alistair rammed his sword up under its ribs. Blood gurgled from its mouth, but it didn't go down that easily.

At last, Bannon severed the tendons behind its knee, and it fell over. Alistair jumped on the damned thing, bearing down with his weight behind his sword. Bannon staggered back. The ogre thrashed and cast Alistair off, but it was in its death throes.

The Wardens turned to the beacon. The oil under it burned weakly, but it was enough to catch some of the wood above it on fire. Smoke billowed from several places in the pile. As they watched, panting, the flames leaped up with a whoosh. Alistair and Bannon were driven back as the greedy fire drove itself to burn higher and hotter.

They staggered to the edge of the tower. Alistair looked out, trying to catch sight of the battlefield, though it was too far to see. The Wardens' bodies trembled; rivulets of blood ran down their limbs, some of it Tainted darkspawn blood, much of it their own. Had the beacon been enough? Had they reached it in time?

They looked at each other. They could sense the tide rising below them, and realized they'd never know. "It was an honor serving with you," Alistair rasped. Bannon nodded, not trusting his voice. He took a deep breath and winced at the pain.

He headed for the stairway. Gamely, Alistair limped beside him. They were not going down without a fight. They were Grey Wardens.

The darkspawn burst through the doorway.


	9. The Death of the Grey Wardens

(_Warnings: mild language, adult situations_)

Bannon heard voices. He couldn't make them out; they seemed to be in some distant underwater cavern. He heard a broken sobbing that gradually faded away.

Some indeterminate time later, he awakened. This time there was a woman's voice, cold and clear as a mountain stream. "So, you've decided to rejoin the living?" A pressure lifted from his eyes and he blinked them open with a groan. He was in a humble firelit room. And standing over him, it was that woman from the Wilds. "M-Morrigan?" He pushed himself up on his elbows. The witch moved to help him, supporting him and propping a few pillows behind his shoulders. "Is this your house?" he rasped.

"'Tis Mother's house, yes," she said. "How do you feel?" She moved away, crossing to the hearth.

"I- I'm alive?" Surely, this was the last thing he expected.

"Quite," the witch assured him. "Though 'twas a near thing." She ladled some stew from a pot over the fire into a bowl, then returned to the bedside. "We healed you. Well, Mother did most of the work; I know little of the healing arts."

Bannon took quick stock of himself. He felt tired, weak, and a bit stiff. He ran a hand over his bandaged chest, wincing as he recalled black, barbed arrows thudding into him. But it didn't hurt now. He took the bowl from Morrigan gratefully. "How did I get here?"

"Mother turned into a giant bird and plucked you from atop the tower. She flew down and brought you here."

"You're jo-. No, I guess you're not." Bannon put a spoonful of stew into his mouth, suddenly ravenous.

Morrigan shook her head. Then she said, "I hope you like that. The newt eyes are quite tasty this time of year."

Bannon froze with the food halfway down his throat. He looked up at her, but she only returned his gaze mildly. He was going to choke to death, so he forced the food down with an audible gulp.

Morrigan chuckled. "You've done much better than your friend. When I played that trick on him, he spit stew halfway across the room." She smiled. "Mother made him clean it all up before letting him have his clothes back."(*)

Friend? "Alistair? He's here?" Bannon devoured more of the stew. He was pretty sure those were just peas. But what the hell, he was starving, and city elves couldn't afford to be picky eaters. "What happened at the battle?"

"The man who was supposed to respond to your signal quit the field."

"What?" Bannon stopped, his mouth half open. "General Loghain? He...? He didn't attack? Why? What happened? What about the king? And the Grey Wardens? We have to go back and find out."

"There is no need for that. I had a rather good vantage point. 'Tis too dangerous to return there, now."

"If you were watching, unnoticed, we could use the same spot."

"Not unless you can turn into a bird."

Bannon frowned and shook his head. He ate mechanically in silence as she described the battle. The soldiers in the pass had perished. They had held off the darkspawn bravely, but the horde kept coming, unchecked. No army descended from the hills to reinforce them. They were slaughtered!

"The darkspawn overran the camp?" Bannon asked. Morrigan nodded. "What about... what about north of the camp? Where the elves were?" Did Loghain abandon them to die, defenseless? Or had they left with the army?

"I'm afraid I don't know," said Morrigan.

"Well, we have to find out!"

"Why?" she asked. He looked up at her. Her face was open and clearly unconcerned. "What could you possibly accomplish?"

"There could be survivors. Some who got away."

"Aye, there are stragglers. But as I said, 'tis too dangerous-"

"What is dangerous? The battle is over. Did the darkspawn start living in our tents?"

"No, but... Are you sure you want to hear?" Morrigan's cat-eyes narrowed calculatingly. "Your friend became most upset when I told him."

"No. I mean... I have to know."

She crossed her arms over her stomach. "The darkspawn comb the gorge for bodies. Feeding, I think. Should they find any survivors however, they drag them away. I do not know where, or why."

Bannon's mouth went dry. He let the spoon plop into the dregs of the stew in the bowl. His appetite seemed to have deserted him.

Morrigan took it from his hands and set it on the bedside table. She perched on the edge of the bed and gently tugged the end of the bandages loose. "Let's see how you're doing," she said. "Mother says the Grey Wardens have incredible healing capacity."

"Does she know a lot about Grey Wardens?" Flemeth seemed to have a lot of interest in them, at any rate. Bannon wondered why.

"Perhaps she knew some Grey Wardens in the last Blight."

Bannon frowned at her glib tone. Surely this was just another 'old mother' joke. No one could be _that_ old. Morrigan didn't look up from her work. She bent closely over him, her slender neck and smooth jawline filling his vision. He could distinctly catch her scent, a mixture of loam and moss and woman. Her fingertips were cool and gentle against his skin. Despite the turmoil of grim thoughts spinning through his mind, there was something about a woman slowly uncovering him that caused... stirrings. -Of a purely physical nature. He suddenly realized those bandages were all he was wearing.

"Does that hurt?" she asked softly as he tensed.

"Uh, no."

She slid the blankets lower, down into his lap, so she could reach the tail end of the bandages wrapped around his stomach. A bead of sweat prickled at his temple. Morrigan looked down on him. "'Tis quite remarkable," she said. He hoped she was talking about his chest! She touched his skin, running her hand lightly over the faded red marks that had previously been mortal wounds. She seemed oblivious to the effect her touch had on him. "I'll tell Mother you're fully recovered, then?" She turned her head and looked into his face.

"Um- yes."

Her brows creased slightly. "Though you seem to have a touch of fever, yet."

Bannon licked his lips. "Wh-where are my clothes?"

"There, in the chest." She tilted her head towards the corner by the chimney. Slowly, graceful as a cat, she stood up and looked down on him. Rather like a cat sizing up a rodent. "Did you want them now?" she asked. "Do feel free. 'Tisn't anything I haven't already seen." Er-! He didn't think she'd seen it _quite_ this way. "'Twas I who undressed you and bathed you, after all." All right, maybe she _had!_

"I...," he gulped. "I'm very grateful, Morrigan. But," he was very quick to add, "I think you're right. I do feel a little... flushed. Perhaps I should rest a bit more." Maker's Mercy, how to get rid of this woman? "Can you let Alistair know that I'm all right? Please?"

"Of course." She smiled faintly (mockingly?) and turned and walked out.

Bannon let out a breath. Then he flung the coverlet off and sprang for the chest. He dug out his breechcloth and pants. "Will you stop that," he hissed. "What are you trying to do, get us killed?" He had no idea how angry the witch might be at him and his state - which was entirely not his fault! But he knew how shem women could get riled if an elf even looked at them sideways. Witches must be ten times worse. Or, hell, maybe she was desperate! Out here, all alone; her and her dotty mother. _That_ thought put a damper on things! "You'll get warts!" he hissed in final warning to his wayward anatomy as he pulled his clothes on.

...

A few minutes later, he ran into Morrigan and Alistair, just outside the door. "I told you," the witch said imperiously, "he's resting." She turned around and scowled at Bannon. "That was a rather short rest," she said, narrowing her eyes.

Bannon shrugged helplessly. "Well, I tried. I was just... too restless, I guess." The witch rolled her eyes, tossed her hands in defeat, and stalked off.

"You... you're alive." Bannon didn't recognize Alistair's voice, it was so hoarse. Nor his face, which was haggard, his eyes red-rimmed. "I thought I'd lost you, too."

Flemeth came over to them. "I told you, he'd be fine." Her voice creaked like a great tree branch, making her sound stronger instead of weaker.

"It was a near thing," Alistair said, still looking Bannon over as if afraid he might be a ghost.

"I'm all right," the elf assured him. "Thanks to Flemeth." He gave her a polite bow of his head. "And Morrigan." He didn't know where the young witch had gotten off to, but he didn't want to bet she wasn't listening.

"Duncan's dead," Alistair said suddenly. The light that had crept into his face at seeing his brother Warden died out. "Everyone... they're all dead; all of them. The king... Loghain left us to die." His shaky voice gained strength at the last, the strength of hatred and betrayal. Alistair put his hands on his face.

"Easy," Bannon said gently. "I know. Morrigan told me."

"What are we going to do?" Alistair cried into his hands.

Bannon didn't have an answer. But Flemeth did. "You're Grey Wardens," she said. "You're going to stop this Blight."

The elf stared at her. Alistair coughed a harsh, bitter laugh. "We are? Just the two of us?"

"It's what Grey Wardens do. It's what you are sworn to do." Flemeth crossed her arms and fixed the former Templar with her grey-gold gaze. "It is the duty that cannot be forsworn. Isn't that right?"

Bannon had to wonder again exactly how much the old woman knew about the order - and how she knew it. Alistair gaped at her, his face creased with worry. "But... we can't do it alone! Two against the horde? Even for a Grey Warden, that's impossible odds. No Grey Warden ever defeated a blight without an army at their back."

There was an army, beating a hasty retreat northward as Bannon understood it. But he doubted catching up with them was a good idea at this point. He tapped a thumbnail against his teeth. "Isn't there a Grey Warden headquarters? Somewhere?"

"There's Weisshaupt, the home of the order," Alistair said. "But that's hundreds of leagues away, in the Anderfels."

"There are no outposts that are closer?"

Alistair grimaced. "You have to understand, the Wardens were banned from Ferelden until recently. After they took part in a revolt against the king or something. Every Warden in Ferelden was here, at Ostagar. So the next closest would be the Wardens in Orlais. Duncan came from Orlais, when this nonsense started, as did most of the other Wardens." The man sighed heavily, and rubbed his face. "King Cailen was going to request more Wardens, but there were... complications."

"Complications?"

"Politics," Alistair spat. "Loghain and some of the older banns didn't want Orlesians back on Ferelden soil."

Flemeth said, "There are plenty of allies close to hand."

Bannon got the idea she was trying to lead them to something, but he didn't know what. Or why she just couldn't spit it out. He stared at her, brow creased in puzzlement. She just rolled her eyes. "And I thought you were the smart one." Bannon opened his mouth to protest, but had nothing to say to that.

Alistair was rubbing his head, making his short hair stand out in messy spikes. "We can go to Redcliffe," he said, piecing together his thoughts as they took shape. "Arl Eamon is a good man. I know him. If we explain what happened here, how Loghain betrayed us, he could fight against him." Alistair seemed charged by the idea. His head came up, his eyes alight. "He wasn't here at Ostagar; he still has all his men!"

Bannon frowned in thought. "He has an army big enough to fight the horde?"

"No, but big enough to fight Loghain's men. Arl Eamon can unite the banns; they'll rally to him! He can call for a Landsmeet, and we can settle this score with Loghain."

Bannon chewed the inside of his lip. He wasn't sure what good it would do to have two armies fighting each other while the darkspawn horde still threatened the country, but the idea of it seemed to rejuvinate Alistair. The man had almost been a walking corpse. Now his voice was stronger, his cheeks had regained some colour. And one army fighting another to unite them was better than no armies fighting the Blight. He hoped. The elf glanced at Flemeth. She looked exasperated.

"It's the Grey Warden's job," she said pointedly, "to call upon the forces of their allies in times of Blight." Alistair stopped and looked at her, dumbfounded. The old witch slapped a hand to her face. She muttered something that might have been Chasind, or might have been magic. Bannon tensed to leap away as soon as she made any hostile moves. Instead she just groaned, "_Why_ did I give you those treaties?"

"The treaties!" Alistair said. "They're still there, in my scrip! I forgot all about them."

"Obviously," Flemeth growled.

Undaunted, Alistair contined, his excitement rising further. "The treaties give us the right to call upon aid from the dwarves, the Dalish, even the Circle of Magi. They have to help us!"

"Even though there's only two of us?" Bannon asked skeptically.

"_Especially_ since there's only two of us!"

Flemeth huffed in irritation. "Don't bother thanking me for keeping them safe for you."

"Thank you, Flemeth; you're an angel," Alistair said with genuine gratitude.

"Ooh, flattery will get you everywhere, big boy." She waggled her brows at him, then burst into cackling laughter as his expression turned to one of pure horror. "Now, down to business."

...

Flemeth was determined to see them off within the hour. Alistair worried that Bannon was still too weak, but the elf assured him he felt fine. Well, he had been 'resting' for two days. The elf was a bit shocked to hear that.

They scoured the tiny home for supplies. There were spare winter blankets for bedrolls, but no tents to speak of. They commandeered an old oilcloth used for covering the woodpile and folded it into an awkward bundle. Flemeth gave them a hand axe and said something about a lean-to. Bannon looked just as blank as the human felt. Candle stubs, dried rabbit jerky, leather cord, a tinderbox, a battered pot, two pewter mugs... Flemeth didn't seem concerned about stripping her home of anything. It finally dawned on Alistair - the old witch didn't expect to be here come winter. That's when reality hit him. They'd lost. They'd failed to stop the Blight, and it was going to eat up this land like a black rot festering on an infected limb. It wasn't going to heal. It was going to keep spreading.

Alistair rubbed his eyes. They felt as if they had sand in them again, fierce pinpricks that made them water. He wished again for the hundredth time that Duncan were here. Duncan would know what to do. And the loss of the Grey Wardens ached like a missing limb. He'd really felt as if he'd belonged, for once in his life. Surrounded by Wardens, he felt like part of a family. Times had been rough, the future had been bleak. Maker knows, they faced death in every battle. But for several weeks, Alistair had been a part of something greater than himself. And now, he was reduced to nothing.

"Hey." He felt a light tought on his arm. Alistair looked up; Bannon was giving him a concerned look. "Come on," the elf said gently. "We need you."

"'We'?" Alistair joked darkly. "Like the whole country? The whole world?"

"Well, _I _need you." Bannon dropped his mask of bravado. His dark eyes looked haunted, almost desperate. "I can't do this alone."

Alistair took firm hold of himself. The little g- the elf needed him. He nodded. "I guess-" He had to clear his throat, as his voice was still hoarse. "I guess we can't just do nothing. Even if it is hopeless."

...

Flemeth produced a pile of shirts from the depths of one closet. Men's shirts, of all kinds and styles.

"What are you doing with so many men's clothes?" Alistair asked.

"For all my male visitors, of course," the old witch replied.

Alistair looked at Bannon, but clearly, neither one of them wanted to go there. Carefully, Alistair asked, "What are you giving them to use for?"

The old woman straightened up, a hand pressing her lower spine. "For you to wear when yours get dirty," she said simply. "And then to tear into bandages when you get yourself beat up."

"You mean, we should tear them up and roll them into bandages?"

Flemeth put a hand over her eyes. "Of course not! Then how will you wear them?"

Alistair was confused. He was used to carrying neatly rolled bandages in his pack. But Bannon said, "It makes sense." So they rolled up the shirts to pack away.

Flemeth pointedly gave the elf a satchel of poultices and healing draughts. Because he, as she kept hinting, was 'the smart one.' Alistair didn't argue. He was just glad he wasn't the smart one, or they'd all be in trouble.

...

Morrigan reappeared. She seemed a bit ruffled by all the commotion going on in the house, but struggled not to show it. She suggested the Wardens best hope was to make for a small town just north of the Wilds, called Lothering. All they had to do was get to the Imperial Highway and go west. Of course, the witches didn't have anything so handy as a compass. Morrigan rolled her eyes. "When you get to the hightway, you turn left." At least these were instructions Bannon could follow!

"The Imperial Highway has branch that ends near Ostagar," he said. "I don't see why we can't go back to the camp, raid some decent supplies - no offense, Flemeth - climb the norhern ravine, and slip past the darkspawn by going through the elven camp. There's a forest up there at the edge, it would be easy enough to use for cover." Not to mention, he could find out what happened to his people. If the army had abandoned them, he'd go straight after Loghain and rip the bastard's throat out.

Flemeth said, "If you and your friend go anywherenear that horde, you'll be killed."

Alistair explained. "You know that trick we Grey Wardens can do, sensing darkspawn nearby? Well, they can sense us, too." Bannon threw up his hands in exasperation. "If it's a few stragglers, or even small groups, it could work. But a whole army? They'd swarm us like ants on a drop of honey."

"So you want us to head into this wilderness until we hit the Imperial Highway, and just turn left?" Bannon asked Flemeth. "Without a map or a compass?"

The old witch stroked her chin thoughtfully. "There is one more thing I can give you, that will help you on your way."

"We'd be most grateful," Bannon said sincerely.

"I'll give you my daughter."

"What?" Alistair yelped. Morrigan sputtered.

"She is very precious to me, so be sure you keep her in one piece. Morrigan," Flemeth turned to her gaping daughter; "guide these fellows and aid them on their quest."

"I- but- Mother!" Morrigan bit down hard, gaining control of her voice and her words. "This isn't how- this isn't what I wanted."

"You've seen them bumbling around the swamp. It would take them three months to find their way out, and that's only if they don't fall into quicksand, eat poison berries, get bitten by snakes, or eaten by spiders."

Both Alistair and Bannon opened their mouths to defend themselves. But... what could they say? It was true. And eaten by spiders? Was she joking? Bears would be more likely, or so Bannon thought.

"But a Templar, Mother!"

"Former Templar," Alistair put in.

Flemeth said, "All the more reason he needs help."

"Hey!"

"I..." Morrigan deflated under her mother's imperial gaze. "Yes, Mother." She took a breath and came to grips with her new job.

"We would be most grateful for your help, Morrigan," Bannon assured her.

"Are you sure about this?" Alistair asked. He lowered his voice, even though the two women were right there within hearng anyway. "They're... you know. Apostates."

Bannon just stared at him. He had to be joking. They needed the help of these witches - mages, apostates, whatever you wanted to call them - and Alistair didn't want their help because... what? They didn't have a license to practice magic? "Do you know the way out of here?" he asked the human.

"Um, no." Alistair mulled it over. "All right, then." To Morrigan he said, "You can cook, right?"

She narrowed her eyes and said slowly, "Yes..."

Bannon nearly kicked the Templar - former Templar - in the ankle. This must be why Templars and mages didn't get along. "You don't have to cook," he said appeasingly.

"Well, you missed your chance there," Alistair said. "It's charred rabbit from here on out. I'm a horrible cook."

Bannon slapped his forehead. "You just put it in a pan and fry it on the stove until it's done." Honestly, how hard could it be? But Alistair and Morrigan stared at him. All right, so they didn't have a pan, and there wouldn't be any stoves in the Wilds.

Morrigan sighed in exasperation. "I'll cook, if only out of self preservation. Speaking of which..." She turned to Flemeth. "Now, Mother, be sure not to scorch the porrige.(β) Again. Mind the fire. I wouldn't want to return to find our home a smouldering pile of ash."

"Bah!" Flemeth waved that off. "'Tis more likely you'll return to find this place overrun by darkspawn, devastated by the Blight."

Morrigan's face went white. Her voice trembled with actual emotion. "I... I didn't mean..."

Flemeth awkwardly patted her arm. "No worries, child. I have plenty of tricks in me yet to avoid those stinking monsters." The old witch squinted one eye and tilted her head up at her daughter. "Mind what I told you. Now be off. A storm is brewing."

Morrigan nodded as if not sure of her voice. Bannon thanked the old woman once again. Without much ado, no fanfares of heroic speeches, they started off down the muddy path on their grand quest to save the country from obliteration.

...

* * *

><p>*: Flemeth has clearly been watching too much of this video.<p>

β: 500 Bloodsong Points if you know a story containing a warning about scorching the porrige.

Well, FFnet won't let me put links or abbr tags in. Please visit my profile page for links to the story on its forum or my Wordpress blog to find the answers.


	10. The Wilderness part 1

(_Warnings: foul language_)

Alistair slogged along the dirt path through the Wilds. He followed the witch's heels, not having the will to raise his head further. His pack was a solid weight on his back, along with his sword. His shield was a familiar weight on his upper arm, where he carried it. These were nothing compared to the burden on his heart. He had finally, _finally_, found his place in the world. He was bonded to the men and women of the Grey Wardens. He _belonged_. He was one of them, and their purpose was clear; their calling noble. Alistair was proud to be a Grey Warden. He'd been a part of something important.

Now... He stumbled on a half-buried rock. He had to keep going. His whole family of Grey Wardens had been wiped out. He couldn't just give up everything they'd striven for. But how could he prevail where the entire order had failed?

Duncan would know what to do. Alistair tried to imagine what his mentor would tell him. But bringing up Duncan's image, recalling his strong voice, only made his vision blur with tears. He swallowed them and tried to push those thoughts aside. That only left him empty. Grey and desolate like the lowering sky. Soon the trees would be bowed under the weight of the heavy clouds. Alistair felt the same.

Then he felt a hand on his arm. He looked over. Bannon had moved up beside him as they traversed an open spot along the path. "You know in the stories," the elf said, "when the characters say 'It couldn't possibly get worse'?"

"And then it does?"

"Exactly. But I'm starting to feel just like that."

Alistair sighed and ducked a wayward branch as the path narrowed again. "I think I know what you mean. I mean, I'm not going to tempt fate by saying it, but I don't see how things could get any worse."

Bannon nodded, but then he said. "Ah, Alistair... I have bad news for you?"

"What?" Alistair asked suspiciously.

"I'm not going to be able to pay back that money I owe you anytime soon."

To his own surprise, Alistair laughed. "Okay, now you've ruined my day. This has to be the lowest of the low."

Bannon grinned back at him, but then a stiff breeze ruffled his hair, and the two Grey Wardens heard a rushing sound behind them. They stopped and turned. "You had to say that, didn't you?" Bannon griped, his grin vanishing. A thick curtain of rain was sweeping towards them.

Alistair saw a brief flash of what he thought was lightning when he turned back to ask Morrigan about shelter. When he blinked, the witch was gone, and a silver fox was running through the brush. "Did you see tha-?"

"Did she just turn into-?" the elf said simultaneously. He darted ahead. "Morrigan!"

Alistair ran after him. They got about five paces before they were drenched in rain. The fox led them on a merry chase through the bushes. Then she leapt up a steep incline and disappeared inside a large hollow tree.

The two Wardens panted up and bent to look inside. The fox was curled up cozily in the dark cavity. "That's fine for you," Bannon said, "but what about us?" The only answer he got was a flick of a fluffy tail as the fox tucked her nose under it and closed her eyes. "Fine." The elf straightened and looked at Alistair. "We'll just go on without you."

"We will? I mean... but we'll get soaked!"

"Alistair," the elf said, blowing a puff of air up over his face to try to dislodge a wet hank of hair that had escaped from his helmet. "We're already soaked." Bannon turned and descended the short hillside, giving the Templar a beckoning wave.

With one more dubious look towards the hollow tree, Alistair followed, skidding carefully down the slope. "Won't we get lost, then?"

"Not a chance!" Bannon said loudly. "I'm an elf! And you're a Templar - or near enough. We have an excellent sense of direction."

"We do?" Alistair glanced over his shoulder.

"Is she coming yet?" the elf whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"Uh..., no."

Bannon grumbled underbreath. Then he said, again loud with confidence, "That's right, I'm sure it's this way!"

"Of course," Alistair agreed loudly. "We don't need any sneaky witch-thieves!"

...

Half an hour later, they were thoroughly lost. But at least they'd found a fallen tree that had a hollow under it. They squeezed into the little space and sat in the squelching mud, looking out at the grey and green world.

"So we're lost then," Alistair said.

"We're not lost."

"You know where we are?"

"I know exactly where we are!" The elf's voice shook a little. He was prone to shivering in the cold and wet.

"Oh good," said Alistair, unconvinced. "Where are we?"

"We're in the Wilds."

There was silence. A good bit of it. Then Alistair asked, "Do you think the witch can find us?"

"Oh yes." Bannon nodded confidently. "In the Wilds, Witch of the Wilds. No problem."

"Hmm," Alistair said noncommittally. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way - you being my last and only friend in the world and all. But... I hate you."

"Aw, come on," the elf cajoled. "Didn't I find us shelter?"

"This? Oh, _this_. This lovely mud hole under a cramped little log? Oh, no; this is smashing, really."

"You wanted to be out of the rain."

"I'm beginning to think your first idea was better. We were already soaked, so staying in the rain couldn't do much more to us. Here, though..." Alistair shifted uncomfortably. "I think muddy water is seeping through the chinks in my armor. Not to mention chinks I have elsewhere, if you know what I mean."

Bannon had no reply. A few moments later, he screamed. "Ahh! Spider!" He jumped back and tried to draw his sword, which was impossible in the tight space.

"What, this?" Alistair reached a cupped hand out in front of Bannon's face and gently captured the small spider that was dangling from a thin line. "It's just a little spider. I didn't know you were afraid of spiders."

"I'm not!" Bannon insisted. "But just... didn't Flemeth say something about being eaten by spiders? Maybe it's a flesh-eating spider."

Alistair twisted to set the spider down, but then reconsidered. He didn't want to sit on it, or have it crawling up into his armor. So he flicked his hand and tossed it into a nearby bush. The spider waved its spindly legs in indignation, then righted itself and scurried off, raindrops pelting leaves to the left and right of it like miniature catapult shots. "She meant giant spiders." Alistair looked back. The elf just stared at him. "What?"

"You're serious?"

"Yes. They live in deep forests or caves and such."

"Whoa, _giant_ spiders? Like how big?" Bannon asked.

"I don't know; I've never seen one. But big. You know. Giant."

"Giant like the size of a house? They step on people like bugs? They eat twelve oxen in a single gulp?"

Alistair snorted. "No, of course not that big. Just... like, big. You know. Huge."

"Big as your hand? Big as a rat? Big as a dog?"

"Well, big. You know... BIG."

"You're a real fount of knowledge," the elf said dryly.

"Well, you can ask me about Andraste and the Chant of Light. That was the center of my teachings with the Chantry."

"What's the prayer for Andraste to come save us from the wilderness?"

"Hmm, let me think... 'For forty days and forty nights, the Armies of the Righteous travelled the barren deserts and the dark forests. Blessed Andraste called to her followers with songs of freedom. The Maker heard the Chant and blessed her followers with sweet rainwater. The plants of the forest and plains fruited for them, and the game was plentiful. And so the Exalted March passed through the Wilderness and came upon the seat of power of the Magisters.'"

"So we just need to call an Exalted March to get out of here?"

"Yep."

...

It began to grow dark, though the rain eased up. It was too damp for firewood. They Grey Wardens couldn't think of any way to improve their meager shelter, though they did pull the oilcloth out to lay down over the mud. Then they got their muddy boots on it, but at least it seemed drier. They dug out the smoked rabbit legs and gnawed on them. By the time they finished, it was too dark to see a hand in front of their faces.

Hunkered down, Bannon said, "I suppose one of us should keep watch? And the other try to sleep, at least."

"I can't sleep," Alistair said.

"All right." Bannon shoved his pack up where the hollow met the tree trunk, his bow wedged beside it. He lay on his side, pillowing his head on the end of the pack.

"Oh, before you do," Alistair said, "I should warn you about the nightmares."

"Nightmares?"

"Grey Wardens... especially those fresh from the Joining, have nightmares. It's from the Taint."

Bannon groaned. "Great. I don't have nightmares enough?"

"Do you?" He heard Alistair's voice shift as the Templar turned his head towards him in the dark. "What about?"

"Nothing. Personal stuff."

"You want to talk about it?" Alistair asked gently.

"No."

"All right, then. I'd wish you good night, but I don't think that's going to happen."

Bannon just grunted in agreement. He doubted it, too.

...

The night was hell. Bannon drifted between chilly, wet mud and burning blood. People screamed at him, monsters shrieked. He tossed and jerked awake every time he almost drifted off. In the darkness, everything blended together until he suffered waking dreams and hallucinations he couldn't escape.

He twitched and jerked. His eyes snapped open. He couldn't see a thing. Then he heard a noise and held still, listening. There it was again, a low, keening sound. And sobbing.

"Alistair?"

The noise cut off abruptly, as if the human had held his breath to stifle it. Bannon pushed himself upright, rubbing his sore neck. "It's all right," the elf said into the silent darkness, his own voice hoarse. "Do you want to talk about it?"

The human sniffled. "I...," he said in a tiny voice. "I-it's... it's just..." His voice dissolved into a whimper. Bannon reached out and gripped the human's shoulder. The small contact seemed to break through the dam.

"The Wardens were my family. My whole family. I never... when my mother died, I... I just never fit in, anywhere. Duncan..." His voice strained thin. "Duncan was like a father to me. The only real father I ever had." He put his hands to his face, changing the timber of his voice. Bannon squeezed his shoulder. "Now they're... they're gone. Forever. I can't..." His body shook with sobs. "I can't believe it. It's so unreal. But here we are. I can't wake up from this. And I don't know how I can go on." He hiccoughed and sniffled again.

"It's all right," Bannon whispered. "We'll make it, somehow. Try to get some rest."

Alistair slumped onto his side and curled up tighter. He hiccoughed brokenly a few times, then seemed to settle.

Bannon stared into the darkness, wondering just how they were going to accomplish anything at all. He felt very small. A tiny speck in the vast wilderness.

...

It dawned, if such a weak grey light could be called that, wet and dreary. Bannon crawled out from under the fallen tree and slowly unbent his limbs and spine. His whole body ached, and he was more tired than he'd been before the night had started. "Alistair, come on." Creaking and groaning like an old man, Bannon knelt and fished out his pack and his bow.

Alistair hadn't moved. "Alistair?" Great Maker, was the human dead? Bannon prodded the inert body with his bowstave. He called the man's name again, panic creeping into his voice. "Alistair? Alistair! You stupid shem! Don't you dare die and leave me all alone out here!" Bannon jabbed him hard in the ribs, eliciting a groan. "Oh, get up!"

Prodding, poking, pulling, he got the shem dragged out from under the tree. The ragged human sat in the mud. Bannon found some more dried animal meat and stuck a piece in his hand. "Eat!"

Alistair's voice was a dried husk. "How?"

"Stick it in your mouth and chew." Bannon tried to follow his own advice. All right, it was going to take quite a bit of chewing to make a dent in the hardened meat. He hoped he hadn't accidentally pulled out the leather patches. He gave it a closer look. No, it seemed red and striated enough to be dried meat.

The paltry humor seemed to bring Alistair around a bit. He stared morosely at his share. "I mean..." He cleared his throat. "How are we supposed to defeat the Blight? There are only _two_ of us."

"Duncan once told me that being a Grey Warden..." Bannon gnawed thoughtfully on the jerky a moment, editing what Duncan had said. "You're going up against an enemy who is bigger than you, stronger than you, outnumbers you, and even enjoys killing you. But you do it anyway, because it's the right thing to do."

"I understand that. But the odds are a million to one against us. Literally!"

"It's still the right thing to do." Bannon surprised himself when those words came out of his mouth. "We can't just sit here and die. If we die trying... at least we tried."

Alistair nodded. "You're right." His voice was still brittle, his eyes still haunted. He gnawed absently on his meager breakfast.

"Besides," Bannon said with practicality, "there's two of us. How often have you ever heard people describe an impossible situation as a _two_-in-a-million chance?"

This caused Alistair to cough a slight laugh. "Ah, never, actually. I suppose that really doubles our chances, doesn't it?"

"There, see? It's practically a guarantee of success." Bannon clapped the human on the arm and was rewarded with a faint smile. It would take some time to bring back his glib, irreverent self.

"So," said Alistair, his voice a little stronger; "have you figured out where we are?"

"Still somewhere in the Wilds," Bannon said confidently.

"Oh, that's good." The human at least made a stab at humor. "At least that's one constant we can count on."

Morrigan's cold razor voice cut in. "Lost, are you?" The Wardens whirled around. The witch was standing on the trunk of the fallen tree. "Perhaps you shouldn't have run off."

"Run off?" Alistair growled. "You abandoned us!"

"Truly? As I recall, 'twas two stubborn males that I saw disappearing into the trees."

"What did you expect us to do?" Alistair snapped. "Stand there in the rain while you sat there with dry... uh, fur and... and... stuff!"

Bannon didn't stop Alistair from railing at the witch. Truth be told, he wanted to rip into Morrigan just as badly, but he had a better sense of self preservation. Let Alistair piss her off. At least it was bringing some colour back to his face. He let them snap and snarl at one another until they degraded into name-calling.

"You... sneaky, evil witch-fox!"

"All right, calm down!" Bannon interjected. He took a breath to rein in his own temper. "Morrigan, you _know_ we are 'helpless babes in the woods.' You knew that when you took this job. In fact, that's the whole reason your mother sent you, isn't it? To help us?" The witch looked as if she were biting something. Something unpleasant. "Look, if you wan't to go back and tell Flemeth that you lost us and we perished in the wilderness, fine. Just kill us quickly before you go!"

"Very well then," she said. Both he and Alistair scrambled to their feet and backed up. She didn't blast them with mage-fire, however. She folded her arms and said, "If you want me to teach you to survive, you will do what I say, as I say, when I say it. Is that clear?"

The Wardens glanced at each other. Alistair seemed about to protest, so Bannon cut him off. "We will." He shot a look at Alistair. The former Templar didn't like it, but he kept his mouth shut.

Morrigan jumped lightly to the ground before them. "Very well. The first order of business-." She caught herself, stopped. Her nose twitched and a peculiar look came over her face. "The _first_ order of business is to find some clear water." She turned and marched off. "Get your gear," she told them, stopping some bit away to wait.

Again, the two Wardens shared a look. Alistair tentatively took a sniff or two. Bannon shrugged at him.

...

They did feel better after a refreshing (all right, _cold_) wash-up in a clear pool. Alistair noticed Bannon giving him an odd look. "What?" the human asked. "Do I have something on my face?"

"Yeah..." The elf sounded almost disturbed.

Alistair bent and tried to see his reflection in the water. He turned his head this way and that, but he didn't see anything in the ripples. He raised a cupped handful of water and scrubbed his face again, just to be sure. "Is it gone now?"

Bannon shook his head mutely.

"This isn't some joke to get back at me for making you get blood on your nose, is it?"

"No."

"Well, where is it?" Alistair rubbed his face. The bristles on his chin made a rough scratchy noise. "Is it in my beard?"

"Your b-!" Bannon goggled. "How fast does that thing grow?"

Alistair chuckled. "Well, I have to shave it every day."

"_Every day?_" The elf was truly flabbergasted.

"Yeah. It's too bad the witches didn't have any razors." He rubbed the bristles again. They were going to itch, he just knew it. The elf was lucky that his folk didn't grow beards. Bannon just stared at him in horror. "What? What's wrong?"

"We could be weeks in this wilderness," Bannon cried. "It'll grow and strangle us all in our sleep or something!"

Alistair had to laugh. "No it won't. Honestly."

Bannon just shook his head.


	11. The Wilderness part 2

The Wilderness

* * *

><p>Slimy, and Totally Not Satisfying<p>

(_Warning: this segment contains nausea-inducing descriptions._)

Morrigan brought back their pot, holding the lid in place. "Don't say I do not take pity on you," she told them. Bannon and Alistair had to mask their looks of enmity. Three days with little food but roots had taken a toll on them. Bannon had broken down and practically begged Morrigan to bring them some meat. She insisted he shoot his own game. It wasn't as easy as shooting at pumpkins of course. Nor as easy as shooting at creatures that attacked you. Deer tended to run away. And squirrels were just too small and fast. Alistair's brilliant idea was for Morrigan to turn into a deer and let Bannon shoot her. Bannon nearly shot _him_ for saying that to the witch's face, and this was probably her retaliation. Not that the idea didn't become more and more appealing as the days wore on.

She set the pot down and moved back. Bannon remembered to thank her. Alistair just grabbed the lid greedily. "Oh!" The human shrank back with a cry. The pot was crawling with bugs and twisting worms. "That is _not_ funny!" the Templar yelled.

"These are all prey you two could manage to catch on your own," Morrigan told them. "If you want better food, you had best improve."

Bannon frowned. "Can't we cook them?"

"'Twould turn them to a crisp. Tear off the legs first if the wriggling bothers you."

Alistair looked a little green. "We could boil them?"

"Boiling sounds good!" Bannon quickly agreed.

Morrigan sighed in resignation and wandered off to wherever she wandered off to at night. Fortunately, the men had at least learned how to set up a lean-to for a shelter, and build a proper fire. Alistair went and got some water into the pot. "I think some slipped out while I was scooping the water," he confessed as he returned.

"We can hope."

They let the pot boil for a reasonable amount of time, trying to ignore their growling stomachs. Finally, they ventured a look inside. It was a soupy mass of insect legs, bodies, and soaked worms that had bloated and turned pale. Bannon swallowed his gorge and took up the spoon. Was it only a few days ago he wasn't bothered by the thought of newt eyes in his stew? "She could've brought some frogs," he said. "Lizards; something with a bit of meat on them." His stomach whined and felt as if it were trying to claw its way out of his body. He closed his eyes and popped the cooled spoonful into his mouth.

It tasted like... cellar rot and flakes of bitter mold. Something crunched between his teeth, little flecks tickled across his tongue, and some bit of worm slithered around in his mouth. He leapt up, but didn't make it far before spitting it out. At least he had the presence of mind to head away from their bedrolls.

"Right," Alistair said. "I'll just take your advice on this one." He lifted the pot with a folded rag and took it off to properly dispose of the dearly departed contents.

Bannon sat on a fallen log by the fire while Alistair washed out the pot, conscientious of getting a tongue-lashing from the witch. The elf peeled the bark off a thin twig of red birch, stripped off the thicker, green inner bark, and put it in his mouth. It wasn't nutritious at all, but it had a pleasant flavor that Bannon liked. When Alistair returned and sat beside him, he silently offered the other Grey Warden a piece. They chewed a while in silence, staring blankly at the flames.

"You'd think you've never eaten a bug as a child." Morrigan's voice came out of the darkness, making both men jump. The witch appeared in the fire's light.

"I suppose that's all you did as a little girl," Alistair growled at her. "Eating bugs, playing in the mud."

Bannon snorted, then rubbed his nose as if something irritated it. He was pretty sure he covered it well.

Morrigan's gleaming eyes narrowed. "If you weren't so slow and too stupid to catch your own prey..."

"If you didn't starve us half to death in some kind of sadistic game-!"

"I haven't got years to teach you all you need to know. If you want to learn quickly, you need to make an effort."

"We are trying!" Alistair cried.

"Not hard enough." Morrigan darted forward towards them. Bannon and Alistair vacated their seat, backpedaling. She flipped the fallen log over at their feet. Bugs squirmed away from the sudden exposure to air. A spindly black spider darted past Alistair. He jumped with a yelp. "You see," Morrigan sighed; "too slow. Now here is something your speed." She pulled a white, wriggling grub from the soft wood on the underside of the log. "Quite plump and juicy." She squeezed it gently, making the hapless creature's body baloon up between her forefinger and thumb. It secreted something dank and shiny from its nether end.

Bannon looked away. His eyes fell on the mass of grubs on the log, squirming like pustulent, fat maggots in a chunk of rotten meat.

"You're not going to eat that," Alistair told Morrigan in a challenging tone.

The witch cocked a brow, then opened her mouth and brought the grub to her lips.

"Oh-ho!" Alistair bolted. Bannon scrambled away. He didn't make it much further than his other soggy pile before he doubled over and retched. He spat out the birch bark and some clear spit. Fortunately, his stomach was too empty to give up anything. The sound of Alistair vomitting nearby made him dry heave again.

Morrigan said, "If you prefer, I can transform into a wolf, eat a rabbit, and then return to regurgitate it for you, like the she-wolf for her cubs."

The only reply was more retching.

The witch sighed at the grub still thrashing in her grasp. "No sense of self-preservation _what_soever." She flicked the hapless creature into the fire. It curled up in the heat and gave a tiny whine as its insides boiled and split its skin. "If you haven't died of starvation by first light," she told her charges; "we'll be moving out." She turned and disappeared back into the darkness.

Bannon and Alistair crawled back to the fire, avoiding the damp spot where the log had been. Alistair kicked the wood further away from camp with a booted foot. "I hate that woman," he said shakily.

Bannon just silently wiped his mouth. "A turtle," he said a moment later.

"What?"

"We could catch a turtle. Turtles are slow."

"Not if they're snapping turtles," Alistair said. "We have snappers up at Lake Calenhad. Those things can bite your foot right in half, including the boot leather."

Bannon stared at him. "Is this another giant spider story?"

"No, they're real! Giant spiders are real, too." The city elf shook his head. Alistair was too tired to argue. "We should get some rest, then."

"Wish we had something to drink," Bannon muttered. He didn't mean water.

"Amen to that."

...

The Wilderness

* * *

><p>The Wardens' Nightmares<p>

(_No extra warnings._)

Alistair took first watch because he couldn't sleep until he was literally falling over from exhaustion. Because then the nightmares came. He didn't dream so often of the archdemon. These nights, his dreams were of Duncan and the Grey Wardens. Their screams as they perished. Sometimes he dreamt he was falling off the top of the Tower of Ishal, watching the beacon fire receding as he plummeted. Most times, he woke up trying to catch himself.

Sometimes he fell all the way down, past the cliffs, to land on the piled bodies of his former comrades. They were twisted and bloody, faces contorted in the rictus of their dying screams. Somehow, the fall didn't kill Alistair, but he lay among the corpses, unable to move. Then the darkspawn would come and start dragging him away. If his own screams didn't wake him in time, they'd start... eating him.

On other occassions, he only dreamt of Duncan. His mentor's face would be drawn in pain and bitter disappointment. "You failed," he'd say quietly to Alistair. "You failed me. I put my faith in you, and you failed every one of us."

From these dreams, Alistair awoke with his face wet with tears.

Bannon, being an elf, had an easier time finding sleep - especially when his stomach was empty. Elven metabolism let them regain their strength with rest when food was scarce. He would sleep through nearly two-thirds of the night before the nightmares overtook him.

His dreams were often jumbled, incoherent. He dreamed of mindless violence, hatred, darkness. Of something hunting him. Something he couldn't secape, because it was inside him.

Sometimes he dreamt of shems - Vaughn in particular - hurting him. Or his family. Great shadow mabari howled and chased him down endless narrow alleyways. When he was cornered, unable to defend himself against his larger attackers, he would hear a voice - a beautiful voice like his mother's, singing. He thought it was her, but when he saw her, she was pale grey, with dead white eyes and blackened lips.

_Let the darkness rise_, the sweet song sang to him.

He would look at his hands, and they'd grow blotchy with some black stain creeping under his skin. Then his fingers would grow into long, scythe-like claws. He'd spring on his attackers, slashing, roaring, fangs bared.

And those shems would die. They'd die screaming, pleading, and he took dark joy in cutting them down. Triumph.

But then, he couldn't _stop_. Sometimes he killed Duncan, or King Cailen. Sometimes, Alistair and Daveth. Then he'd come upon Shianni and rip her open as well. Shianni, Soris, his father, Valendrian, Alarith, Fyora, Marissa, Tamana, Charys... His family, his friends, his community, and he just... couldn't... stop.

Until he shrieked loudly enough to wake himself, heart pounding, mind reeling, stomach convulsing. It was their cue to switch watches.

Sleep was not truly restful for the Grey Wardens. Which is why Morrigan left them alone of nights. Because of 'that racket.'

...

The Wilderness

* * *

><p>The Hunt<p>

(_Warnings: foul language_)

The next morning dawned silvered in mist. When it was light enough to see easily, Bannon got up from his seat. Alistair wasn't tossing in his sleep - yet - so the elf let him rest. He washed up at the nearby stream and topped off the waterskins. Then he went looking for Morrigan.

It was his job, it seemed, to keep the witch mollified. Alistair was incapable of being diplomatic.

"Morrigan," he said as she stpped out of the mist. Somehow, she looked as clean, rested, and well-fed as a young woman staying at a fancy inn. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Yes?"

Bannon took a breath and dug out some of that subservient elf humility. "I want to thank you for helping us. It means a great deal to me that you're here."

"Is that so?"

His stomach gurgled in answer. "I'm just a city elf," he said, ignoring it. "I've never even stood on a patch of ground that hasn't been paved over. Or been able to look around and not see walls in every direction. I mean, stick me behind a tree; I'm lost!" He managed a poor, starving elf smile (it wasn't hard). "I'm really trying as hard as I can. I really want to learn." Did her cruel face soften just a fraction? Did she have a modicum of pity? Or was it just his hunger playing tricks on him?

"And Alistair?"

He was afraid she'd ask that. "I think," he tread carefully; "Alistair has some more experience. Fishing, and hunting maybe. So he thinks he should be better at it than he is. He's having a hard time admitting he isn't." Bannon shrugged. "He's... you know."

"A pompous, self-righteous, pig-headed Templar."

Bannon nodded. "Not exactly the type to listen to a woman of your qualities."

"Intelligent, competent, and independent. No doubt he feels intimidated."

The great thing about playing Morrigan was the way she would fill in everything with exactly what she wanted to hear. It saved trying to guess what that was. Not that it was difficult. She wanted to feel superior. "He really doesn't think before he opens his mouth."

"Clearly."

"But he knows we'd be lost without you - dead, really. He doesn't mean the things he says."

"He'd best learn to curb his tongue." The threat in her voice was clear. Yes, that modicum of pity must've been a hunger-born hallucination.

"He's just short-tempered because..." He dropped his head in despair. "We're just so hungry," he whined, tears nearly springing to his eyes. He was only half faking them.

"The faster you learn to hunt, the sooner you can eat." _Damn!_ Bannon clenched his teeth hard to keep them from grinding together. Morrigan turned away. "'Tis how all nature's young learn. Come, it is time to be moving."

Bannon went and kicked Alistair awake, rather harder than necessary. There wasn't anything for breakfast, except water. They were ready to travel in very little time.

...

Morrigan made everything a chore. She grilled them on what direction they were travelling, what plants they could eat, which was the best path to take. When they guessed badly or didn't know, she belittled them. If they did manage to remember something properly, she said nothing. Not even the slightest word of praise or encouragement.

They rested a while at noon, sitting on a boulder. The two Wardens passed a waterskin back and forth, wishing the water were something more substantial to put in their bellies.

"Don't waste that," Morrigan said, helping herself to another waterskin. "We'll be moving away from the stream for the next few days."

"What," Alistair grumped tiredly; "you won't be able to make us bathe every day?"

Bannon nearly spit out a mouthful of water. "Deer," he whispered. He shoved the waterskin at Alistair. "Deerdeerdeerdeer..."

"What?"

"Shh!"

"Wh-?" The Templar turned to where Bannon was looking. Two deer were standing forty yards away, heads raised and ears pointed right towards them. Alistair froze. All three of them froze.

One deer twitched its ears, then both turned and went back into the trees.

Bannon jumped up from his seat, his heart triphammering. Food! Food food, so much food - on the hoof!

"Well, go get them, fearsome hunter," Morrigan sniffed.

Go shoot the deer! It was bigger than a pumpkin! If only they didn't flee. All right, this was just like sneaking up on a mark to pick his pocket - no more. Bannon unbuckled his sword harness and shoved it at Alistair. He nocked an arrow and started forward. No, use that brush over there as cover.

He tried to sneak, but the tall grass kept swishing against his boots. He got to the stand of trees and could see the deer beyond, browsing at the grass. Closer, closer; too many branches in the way... Slower, _slower_; don't make a sound! A twig hidden in the high grass snapped under his boot. Two heads shot up, mid-chew, looking his way! Bannon flung himself behind a tree turnk, pressing his back against it, eyes squeezed shut. _Don't run, don't run..._ He remained perfectly still for ten seconds more. And another ten.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned to peer around the tree turnk. Yes, the deer were still there, moving as they browsed, angled away from him. First one, then the other raised its head to peer around while chewing. Keeping watch as the other bent for a few quick mouthfuls.

He tightened his grip on the bowstring. Should he try to shoot now, or wait and try to move into a better position? Either way could scare them off. His stomach twisted with a tiny cry. Hell, he didn't have the patience for any more sneaking! He eased back from the tree, keeping it between him and the deer. He froze whenever one glanced his way.

He took a breath, drew the arrow back, and raised the bow in a smooth motion. He sighted carefully, carefully. _It was going to move, SHOOT IT!_

The bowstring twanged. The deer barked a whistling yelp and both shot off, leaping into the brush. No no no! He shot it! He _hit_ it! It couldn't run away now! He scrambled forward, drawing another arrow. He shoved through the bushes. Beyond the next screen of trees, he saw the deer disappearing into a gully. _Shit!_ They were too fast!

He trudged back to the others, his mind berating himself already, far worse than Morrigan's stinging words. He saw hope die in Alistair's eyes as he came up to them. Still, the human composed his face in an encouraging mein.

"Well?" said Morrigan.

"I shot it, but..." Bannon opened his hands, then let them fall weakly back to his sides. "It ran away." Alistair lowered his head, trying to hide his disappointment.

"You hit it, but did not kill it?" Morrigan asked for clarification. Bannon nodded. "Then we shall have to learn tracking."

...

They spent the next several hours 'tracking' small splashes of blood, bent grass here and there. Bannon began to fear they would lose the trail in the oncoming dark. Or worse, that he'd break down and really beg the witch to help them, and she'd refuse again. After all this; it was just too much.

The sun went behind the trees, and the Wilds filled with a dim, even light. That's when they sprang the deer out of hiding. Alistair yelled raggedly and charged after it with his sword. Hell, whatever worked! Bannon stopped and fired his bow. One shot, and the deer staggered. Another, and it fell over. Alistair dispatched it quickly with a blow to the neck.

"Try the liver," Morrigan told them after instructing Alistair to gut the animal. "'Tis soft enough to chew raw, and should be quite warm still."

Bannon's knife slid easily through the purplish-crimson mass once, twice. He tossed a slice to Alistair, and they stuffed the bloody morsels into their mouths, chewing rapidly. They shared a glance, and a brief smile. They were alive! Again!

...

The Wilderness

* * *

><p>Survival<p>

(_Warning: foul language_)

The chase had taken them off their intended course, but at least now they had food. It had taken hours to butcher the deer, working in torchlight as night came on. Then they had to cook the meat. The Wardens devoured half of it right there. Then they would have to carry the rest of it with them, but they didn't mind the extra weight. Still, Morrigan prodded them onward, driving them with barely any rest. The smell of blood would attract bigger predators.

At last, the witch deemed they had made up some lost ground, then left them on their own to sort out a camp. They still were not near a stream or pool. Perhaps their odor repelled witches. They ate in silence. Bannon tried to save some of the meat for later, but he was just so ravenous.

"How much longer do you think we'll be out here?" Alistair asked, sucking on a tooth to try to dislodge a shred of venison that had gotten stuck there.

"I don't know. Another week?"

"I don't know if I can take much more of this," Alistair growled. "That woman... is a downright, cold-hearted, unmitigated _bitch!_"

"And world's worst teacher. What the hell is this? 'Starvation will make you shoot better.' Like how does that help anything?"

"Do you even think she knows what she's doing?"

"No! Her solution to everything is to turn into a damned dog-"

"Fox."

"-to find food or shelter. Or turn into a bird and fly away."

"And eat bugs and worms." Alistair shuddered.

"She's an imperious pain in the ass," Bannon said. He took a breath. "But you should stop antagonizing her."

"Me? Antagonizing?" The Templar's voice just spiralled higher and higher. "Me antagonizing her?"

"Don't you realize how easy it would be for her to kill us?" Bannon rubbed his face. Just looking at the hairy shem made him itch. "All she has to do is not come back. Really, Alistair, didn't you ever have to kiss up to nobles you didn't like? When you were a serving boy?"

"Mmmm... no." Alistair sat back, looking into the evening sky, the small fire's light playing over the planes of his face, playing hide and seek in the thicket of his beard. He seemed about to go into storytelling mode. "When I was a young boy, working in the kennels, I always used to take the dogs out for an evening run. And I'd always wish upon the first start to appear.

"One night, I wished I were in a better place, and the star flew down from the sky. It was a winged mabari, all made of crystal and silver. I jumped on his back, and we flew away to the land of the winged mabari hounds. It was a magical land, of milk and honey, and cookie trees and marshmallow bushes..." Alistair paused and looked over at Bannon. The elf was giving him a pitying look. "What?"

"You've lost it, haven't you?" Bannon laughed, sounding edgy himself.

Alistair laughed back. "Yes! Yes, I have!"

The two giggled like madmen for a minute or two. Then, sobering, Alistair said, "I really would lose it, if you weren't here."

"Come on, Alistair." Bannon was embarassed by the sudden sentiment.

"No, seriously. I'd be a quivering gellid mass by now, if I had to do this on my own. Or," he said after a moment's consideration, "I would have killed that damned witch by now and I'd be in really big trouble. Growing a beard, eating bugs, becoming some kind of bear-man."

"And that'd be different from this how?"

Alistair chortled. "See? That's what I like about you - your sense of humor. Don't ever lose that."


	12. Fugitives

Fugitives

* * *

><p>(<em>Warnings: foul language<em>)

They began to run into pockets of darkspawn, just small scouting parties. Morrigan told (imperiously commanded) them to avoid engaging the beasts. They... mostly succeeded. In a huff, Morrigan pointedly reminded them that she had no healing magic whatsoever. She was damned good at freezing and incapacitating enemies, though. Alistair and Bannon quickly and viciously cut down any darkspawn that managed to get too close. They had their own grudge against the monsters.

One day they came upon a long line of hurlocks, dozens stretching across an open meadow. The creatures stood side by side, an arms-length apart, fortunately facing away from the Wardens. A small hill topped with some scrub gave their group some cover as they watched.

The darkspawn were not marching. They seemed to be slowly crossing the open space, raising their weapons and bringing them down on the ground before them.

"What are they doing?" Morrigan asked, her brow drawn in puzzlement.

"I don't know," Alistair breathed. He'd never heard of this kind of behavior. If they'd been true men, it would appear they were tilling the field.

"Are they digging a tunnel?" Bannon asked.

Morrigan said incredulously, "They're... stabbing the earth."

Alistair shivered. "They're spreading the Blight," he said, his voice hoarse.

"But why?" The witch's normally steady voice seemed to hold a note of distress. "It's just an empty field. It's wild, not even cultivated; used only by animals. Why...?"

"Because that's what they do," Alistair said. "They are the enemy of all life. Th- oh, shit."

Three hurlocks at the center of the line paused and turned, looking directly at the hidden group, as if they'd heard something. Or sensed it. The Wardens and the witch ducked back, but it was too late. The hurlocks roared a challenge, rallying the rest of the line, and they raced towards the hill.

Alistair skidded down the last few feet of slope. Bannon hit the ground next to him, running. The Templar looked back for the witch. She rose from a swirl of black feathers as an inky raven. Useless in a fight! "Don't you abandon us again!" Alistair snarled.

The bird only winged higher into the air over the hill. With a harsh cry, she tipped her wings and angled left, then steadied. She hovered a moment, then slipped sideways again. Alistair looked to where Bannon was scampering off. There was a maze of thickets and gullies.

"Haak!" screeched the raven.

"Left!" Alistair yelled. He put his head down and pumped his fists to catch up with the elf. He clattered loudly enough, his weapon and shield bouncing and ringing against his splint mail; his pack thumping against his back. Behind him, the darkspawn began cresting the hill. They roared in black hunger.

Morrigan hovered high above the creatures, as if marking their location. Well, the Wardens could tell where the darkspawn were! Oh, wait... the point was to get out of range of sensing them! She cawed down to them, tipping her wings to guide them through the maze. Alistair quit looking back when he tripped and landed face-first in a bramble bush. Bannon helped him up, and it was mutually decided the more nimble elf should do the bird-watching. Alistair just concentrated on breathing. Running full-tilt in armor, loaded with a kit, was not easy.

It took a while, but at last, Alistair could no longer feel the darkspawn in pursuit of them. The two Wardens jogged along a gully, leaving the raven further behind. Shallow water splashed their boots as they moved. The gully led out on a bog full of dark water and clumps of green algae.

"Great," Alistair huffed, silently cusing the witch. "Dead end."

Bannon looked back, but trees had closed in at the endge of the water, and he couldn't see the raven. "Maybe not," he said, also huffing for breath. "We can wade." He turned back to the bog. "There." He pointed to their left. There was a huge tree that seemed to have some dry ground under it.

Cautiously, the elf stepped out and down into the water. It came up to his knee. "Sharp drop," he commented. "Muddy. Slippery."

"You'd best carry your pack over your head, in case it gets real deep real fast."

"Is that a short joke?" the elf asked without heat. He took off his pack, and his bow, and draped them over his shoulders, holding them steady there in case he had to lift them higher.

Alistair did the same. If their supplies got soaked in brackish water, some would be ruined. Their lives depended on their supplies. And there were the precious Treaties as well. "Not at all," he said, carefully following the slow progress of the elf as they felt their way along the edge of the bog.

Suddenly, Bannon stopped. "Alistair... tell me you were lying about snapping turtles."

"Uhhhh..." The Templar looked around. This was a perfect habitate for turtles. "I- yes, I lied."

"Maker, you're a bad liar! You couldn't say it so I'd believe you?"

"What? Snappers? Here? Nooo," Alistair said brightly. "Probably a lot of quiet, little turtles. Harmless ones. All over the place. Good eating, too," he added encouragingly.

They made it to higher ground, toes curled defensively every step, without incident. They decided to press on. The witch could find them easily enough, and they really wanted to lose those darkspawn.

They found a sheltered place to set up camp after a few hours. It was a good time to stop; both men were squelching in their soaked boots. They made a concealed fire, set their clothes and armor up to dry, ate half of their dwindling supply of venison, and discussed their next course of action. Finding North without the witch was no longer a problem. As long as it wasn't to cloudy. It seemed reasonably certain that they could find their own way to civilization without dying. Avoiding darkspawn wouldn't be too problematic, if they were alert.

Grudgingly, Alistair had to admit... Morrigan had managed to help them immensely. Yes. Well, it would still be even more helpful if she turned into a deer and Bannon shot her.

...

A few days later, the witch still hadn't returned. They carried on the best they could without her. They'd finished the last of the venison two days ago. They'd tried to stretch it, but the meat was going to go bad, so there was no use waiting. They had managed to catch a turtle - the harmless kind - but frogs were too fast for them. And they dug up a few substantial roots today; Alistair was trying to cook them. Bannon had taken his bow to go hunting.

He'd been stalking a deer for what seemed like hours. His thighs burned from remaining crouched, but he moved with agonizing slowness through the brush.

He'd finally gotten close enough to be confident in killing it in one shot. Suddenly, the deer's head snapped up. An arrow sprouteed from its chest, and it fell over, thrashing its legs. _What?_

Bannon turned his head. A group of soldiers moved up the hill, eager to claim their kill. More soldiers came out of the trees. It was too large to be a scouting party. And they were heading right for him!

The elf bolted.

Shouts rang out across the hillside. He'd been spotted! He zigzagged through the brush, following a faint game trail. The crash and yell of humans in pursuit came behind him. He was faster in the dodging and ducking of branches, so he gained some distance before hitting the clearing near the camp.

He leapt down into the declivity and started kicking the fire out, making Alistair leap to his feet. "Soldiers!" Bannon gasped. Smoke was still rising from the scattered embers. "Loghain's men!"

"How many?" Alistair snapped, grabbbing his sword and sheild, sounding ready for a fight.

"Too many!"

They heard the shouts. They ran. They ran like rabbits. Them, Grey Wardens! Dammit, there were only two of them!

Bannon led them through the trees and boulders, and skidded to a halt above the pond they'd been using for water. "Go," he wheezed, gesturing. "Hide. Thicket."

"What about-?"

"I'll go," the elf pointed breathlessly towards the pond's muddy short. "Leave tracks. Circle back."

"I can't let you-!"

Bannon shoved the Templar in the chest. "Go! They haven't seen you!" Without waiting for a reply, he ran down to the pond and sprinted along the water's edge.

Alistair cursed underbreath and charged the thicket of saplings and green bushes as if it were an enemy. Getting an armored human into such a branch-crossed space wasn't easy. He shoved himself in with brute strength, snapping a great many of the branches in the process. Fortunately, the boughs were green and most sprang back into place, only slightly bruised. Alistair threw himself down to hopefully get out of sight. And... because his ankle got tangled up. But if he were lucky...

"I heard something!" Nope. Not lucky. "Over here!"

"There's tracks over here!" another voice called out, further away. The group of soldiers were swarming all over. This was not good. Alistair daren't move, lest he disturb the bushes and give away his location. _Follow the tracks_, he prayed. _Go the other way_. Bannon at least had a head start.

"Split up," a commanding voice called out. "You two, check over there."

Oh hell, they were heading this way! He couldn't fight lying down, with one foot stuck. They'd capture him! Then what would they do to him? Were they loyal to Loghain, or would they believe the truth? Would they turn against their General?

The bushes shook and rustled, and Alistair wasn't even moving. Then he saw a huge, fuzzy black head - a bear! It fixed him a long moment with a golden gaze. Alistair gaped. _Morrigan?_ he mouthed, too frozen to even squeak.

The bear lunged forward with a roar, crashing through the thicket. She reared up, taller than a man, and slapped the closest soldier with a heavy paw. He screamed as he flew backwards and crashed heavily to the ground.

"Bear!"

The bear roared again.

"Shoot it!" someone yelled.

"No, you idiot!" the commander's voice yelled. "You'll just make it mad!"

With another roar, the bear turned and ran off, its broad rump bobbing until it finally disappeared behind a rocky outcropping.

"Grab Tarkon and let's move." The commander started shouting orders. "You lot, get back here!"

"What about those tracks?"

"It's probably just some barbarian. He ran away; he's no threat to us. If we follow too long, we'll end up surrounded by a whole tribe."

...

The soldiers left well before dark. Alistair waited for Bannon before returning to their camp. Or, rather, their shambles. The soldiers had looted it of anything useful - their oilcloth, the cooking gear, the healing kits, blankets.

"They took our food," Alistair said mournfully. Bannon's stomach whined. "Dammit!" Alistair punted a burned branch across the clearing. "Why did the Maker leave the two most worthless and useless Wardens alive?" he shouted.

"Hey," Bannon said, sounding insulted.

"Sorry," the Templar said sheepishly. "But... we don't know what we're doing. We haven't been fighting darkspawn for years. We don't know anything about them - what they do, how they act, why they do those crazy things they sometimes do. Or better, how to thwart them! If Duncan were here, he'd know how to stop them. Or at least slow them down. He'd know how to deal with Loghain's men. I just..." He slumped. "I don't know. Why are we here?"

Bannon didn't seem to have an answer. He picked up the remains of the fire and started putting it back together. Alistair sat bonelessly in the dirt next to it. "They took our food," he said in a small voice, like a hungry child's.

"'Tis only a few days to the Imperial Highway," Morrigan said as she came up on the meagre fire. "You know you won't perish in so short a time."

Alistair glowered at her. "They took everything! Even the waterskins! We don't have any shelter if it rains!"

"You know full well how to build a shelter. And there are plenty of branches to hand."

"They took the hatchet."

"You didn't keep it on your belt?" Morrigan asked him as if he were an imbecile.

"No," Alistair growled. "And I didn't have a waterskin or the potion satchel, or my _entire_ pack on when we had to run for our lives!"

Morrigan shrugged, completely unconcerned. "'Tis your own fault."

"Why you-!" Alistair surged to his feet.

"Alistair!" Bannon snapped at him. The elf stood up. Alistair held himself in check, his fists clenched. Bannon turned to Morrigan. "He doesn't mean it. He's exhausted. He's hungry and tired and scared."

Morrigan didn't appear to be moved in the least. Nor did she seem the slightest bit worried that an armed and armored man was on the edge of attacking her. She did sound miffed, however. "You might at least thank me for saving your life."

"Thank you?" Alistair spit in fury.

"_Alistair!_" the elf barked.

With clear, concerted effort, the Templar reined back his temper. "I... you..." Suddenly, he deflated again. "You're right. You did save my ass. I'm grateful. Thank you." Shame-faced, he sat back down.

Continuing to ignore him, the witch turned to Bannon. "You seem to have retained some of your tools" She flicked a hand towards the fire.

"Yeah... I have flint. And the hunting knife." The elf shuffled uneasily under her cool regard.

Morrigan paced a half-turn around the rim of their camp site. Alistair hunched his head between his shoulders and strenuously ignored her. She said, "It doesn't appear they took _everything_." She toed a lump of dirt-covered cloth.

"They took the bandages," Alistair grumbled; "but not the shirts."

"I guess," said Bannon; "they weren't in need of a fashion change."

Alistair snorted.

Bannon said to him, "Well, we may get to Lothering looking half-starved and sporting heavy beards, but at least we'll be nicely dressed." This elicited another grudging snort of dark humor from the Templar. "What about the treaties, Alistair?" If the soldiers had taken those, the Wardens would have to risk trying to retrieve them.

"No, I have them here still; in my satchel."

Pointedly, Morrigan said, "A fine place to carry a small hand axe."

"Shut up, witch!"

"You do have swords with which to chop," she said, ignoring him again.

"Swords are not for cutting wood," Alistair grumbled.

"Yet will suffice in a pinch," she countered. Alistair remained sullently silent.

Bannon asked, "How many more days to Lothering?"

"'Tis two or three to the Highway, depending on how many more soldiers there are between here and there. Once on the Highway, it should only be a few hours walking."

Three days without food. His stomach growled in protest. "What about water?"

"There are many small sources scattered about. Though 'twould be better to be able to carry it with you."

Right, would be nice, but since they had no waterskins... "Will it rain?" Bannon tried to sound casual.

But he'd run up against the limit of the witch's help. "What do you think?"

Bannon shrugged. His weather sense was horrible. "Maybe?"

"Mmm, perhaps."

The elf suppressed an annoyed grunt. He looked over at Alistair. They could ask the witch to help them, but the answer would likely be a scathing no. So he said, "Well, we'd better see about putting everything in order." He went to check on the foundation sticks of the lean-to. They seemed intact, just scattered. Alistair got up and came over, then began helping him fit the forked sticks back together.

"A sound idea," Morrigan agreed. She started walking off again. "Do remember to bathe in the morning. It may be the last opportunity for a few days."

"I can't," Alistair griped; "soldiers might find me and I won't have all my clothes and armor on."

"'Twould surely be the most effective way to scare them off." With a gleam of magic and a swirl of feathers, she transformed into a raven and flew off, leaving no opportunity for retort.

"Bitch," Alistair growled venemously, anyway.

...

Avoiding patrols of soldiers was a lot harder than avoiding darkspawn. The Wardens dearly wanted to attack Loghain's men, but tired and weak as they were, and with no healing supplies, they couldn't chance becoming injured.

So they hid, and they skulked, like hunted fugitives. They did, however, attain some modicum of revenge. While lying face down in a gully, covered by brush, they heard one of the soldiers complaining about the evil spirits haunting the Wilds. They'd heard inhuman cries in the night. Apparently, the Grey Warden nightmares were good for something. Alistair had to hold his breath to keep from laughing and giving away their hiding place. He almost passed out from it.


	13. The Road to Hell

The Road to Hell

(_Warnings: foul language_)

They encountered the Imperial Highway late the next afternoon. The sky was darkening early with rainclouds. This section of the Highway was raised, but only eight feet or so. The Wardens clambered up a tree to get to the stone-railed surface of the road. Morrigan simply transformed into a bird and flew off.

The road was filled with knots and clusters of refugees. Some had ox-carts, but most carried their meagre possessions on foot, or a handcart at best. They were all heading steadily eastward. The Wardens turned west and made their way against the flow.

Bannon and Alistair asked for water. They only water they'd been able to carry that day had been soaked in the old shirts. Sucking the damp fabric let them extract some moisture, at least until it dried too far. Their requests were met with surly refusal. "Get your own!" "We have nothing to spare." Alistair was even accused of being a brigand.

At last, a kindly old woman climbed down from the back of an ox-cart and gave them a waterskin. The grateful Wardens each took a deep drink.

Then a young man came scurrying around from the front of the cart. "Mother! What do you think you're doing?"

"Extending aid to those in need," she snapped.

The man snatched the waterskin from Alistair. "_We_ are in need, Mother!" He pointedly wiped the spout off with his sleeve. "You lot, shove off!"

"If we can't show the Maker's kindness to each other, then the Blight ought to take us!"

"Get back in the cart, Mother!" The man threw the capped waterskin back in. "And I thought I told you lot to shove off! They're nothing but thieves," he growled, taking his mother by the arm and forcefully helping her back into the cart.

"Thank you, mum," Alistair said in quiet gratitude.

"Good luck," Bannon added. The Wardens turned and continued on their way.

"I wonder where they're going," the old woman mused.

"To cause trouble," her son growled.

...

There came a lull in the eastward-bound traffic, and the Wardens continued in silence. They rounded a bend and travelled downslope towards what looked like some form of way station. The army was at work here. To the south lay a field of regimented tents, to the north a smaller camp surrounded by a stockade and under heavy guard. Helmeted guardsmen in brown and gold livery herded a knot of refugees up the road through a checkpoint. Beyond them, at the widest part of the road, people and vehicles were being divided up and ushered into various tents by knights in plate mail.

Bannon followed Alistair as the taller man pushed through the throng. A soldier, a short man with a bristling moustache stopped them. "Going the wrong way, friend," he said, in a not-so-friendly manner.

"We need to get to Lothering," Alistair said.

"Lothering's being evacuated."

"Yes, but we still need to get there."

Bannon edged around Alistair. "It's not illegal to go to Lothering, is it?"

"Uh..." The fellow pursed his lips, making his moustache stand up like a frightened wooly caterpillar.

"Right," Bannon finished for him. "Since it isn't, we'll just go on through and be out of your way." He slipped past the guardsman.

"You look very busy," Alistair added.

"Hold it!" The guard grabbed Bannon by the arm. He shoved him over by the stone railing. "You lot wait here. And don't move!" Grumbling curses, the soldier shoved his way past a knot of refugees, heading towards the center of the way station.

The Wardens leaned on the rail. A few fat dops of rain spat out of the sky. They looked over the northward camp with a sense of uneasiness.

Two knights came out of a tent. One was carrying a little girl. The other covered his back as a woman lunged after them. "It's just a bruise!" the woman cried. "She fell! Children fall! It's just a bruise! She'll get better!"

A man ran out from the tent and seized her around the waist. "Let it go!" The woman shrieked and clawed and twisted to get away while he hung on doggedly. "You still have a chance!"

"She's not sick!"

"You still have a chance! Think of your other children!"

The woman collapsed in a sobbing heap. The two knights silently took the child into a large tent on the western side of the camp.

"What are they doing?" Bannon asked.

Alistair slowly drew his lower lip through his teeth before answering. "Culling the ones with the Taint." He nodded towards a pall of smoke that was rising up and mingling with the dark clouds. "They're executing them. Burning the bodies," he said quietly.

"Maker..." Bannon shook off a chill.

"They have to," Alistair said, so softly he could barely be heard. "It's like a plague. There's no cure. No way to save them. The Taint will take them. Then it will spread." He rubbed his face, glove leather making a rough, sand-papery sound over his beard. But his eyes were dry. It was as if he were wrung all out of them. "This is our fault. We failed. The Grey Wardens failed in their duty."

"No," Bannon growled. "Loghain failed to do _his_ damned job!"

"Keep your voice down. You see that gold wyvern device on the flags? That's Gwaren heraldry. These are Loghain's personal soldiers."

...

There was a traffic jam in the center of the roadway. Some self-aggrandizing idiot was refusing to move his wagon. Ser Landry rubbed the bridge of his nose with one gauntleted hand, feeling another headache coming on. Why did the nobles always think the rules were for everyone but them? They were a bunch of pampered children. Unlike, say, Teyrn Loghain, who had been born a common farmer. The Hero of River Dane had earned his titles, unlike these fools who had been granted them by sheer accident of birth.

"Everyone in your group is being sent into quarantine," Landry explained for the hundredth time. "When anyone in the group is found Tainted, the whole group-"

"My group?" The nobleman's round-featured face turned florid. "Do you think I let that filthy knife-ears anywhere near my wagon? My possessions? My _person_?"

"Turn your wagon to the north ramp, Lord Kessel. After three days, you will be released from quarantine." Ser Landry waved two more of his knights over.

"I will not! I demand to speak to your superior! You can't do this to me!"

"I am in command here," Landry growled, fixing the nobleman with a glower. The ass only puffed himself up like the frog who exploded himself in the story. Fine. Ser Landry ignored whatever it was he was going to say and turned to his men. "Clap him in irons and take the wagon into the stockade. I don't have time for this."

"What?" the man yelped as the knights pulled him from his seat. He screeched, raving about who was going to hear about this, the local banns, the queen, the regent. No one paid him any mind.

Ser Landry turned as a guardsman trotted up, calling his name. He exchanged a quick salute with the man. Mulhoun wasn't one to mince words. "Got a pair say they want to go _in_ to Lothering. Human and elf. They look suspicious. They might be Grey Wardens."

"Wardens?" Landry's teeth clenched. "Where?"

...

Bannon and Alistair had turned away from the grey misery of the quarantine camp. They half-sat on the stone rail, heads tipped down to avoid having the sporadic rain splash them in the eyes. Bannon craned his neck to get a glimpse of the blowhard shem being shoved off to quarantine. At least the army was treating everyone equally.

An elven woman slipped around the back of the wagon. She looked around and spotted Bannon. She dashed over. "Excuse me," she said politely. "My mistress left in the last ox-cart; she'll be wondering where I am. We got separated." She wrung her hands. "She'll be so angry if I don't get back to her soon." She gave Bannon a soulful look of river blue eyes. "Can you help me?"

She was quite attractive, with strawberry-blonde hair. It was cut short in the front, but the rest was tied into two thick braids that ran down her back. She had a pretty face, soft lips... but Bannon could sense the Taint within her, like the faint whiff of rot on a bit of meat that otherwise looked good. He shot a look at Alistair, warning him to be silent. Then he smiled encouragingly at her and held out his hand.

With a big answering smile, she took it. He yanked her forward, turned, and twisted her arm around behind her. "She's over here!" he yelled to the knights who had clearly lost something.

"Son of a bitch!" Bannon turned his hips so her heel caught him in the meaty part of his thigh, not his groin. Still, she kicked hard enough to make him wince with a grunt. She thrashed, and suddenly a knife was in her free hand. Bannon grabbed for her arm. He didn't have very good leverage to keep her from swinging wildly at him. Fortunately, the knights ran over and seized her.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. There was no helping her. She was already dead - or worse.

She whirled and spit in his face. "You lying, stinking shem-kisser!" A knight cuffed her across the face. Momentarily stunned, she stopped fighting, and they were able to drag her away.

Bannon wiped his face. It wasn't the first time he'd been called that, with his talent for kissing up to shems, telling them what they wanted to hear. But it was the first time it had ever been true - he'd betrayed a fellow elf to the shem authorities. It was the only thing he could do, but it stung.

A blond-haired knight had returned with the bristly-moustached guard and a few other soldiers. "Thank you," he said brusquely. "I am Ser Landry; I'm in charge of this outpost. Mulhoun tells me you're travelling to Lothering. May I ask why?"

"We have business there," Alistair said, since the question was directed at him. The soldiers ignored the elf. Bannon gritted his teeth and wished he could kick the shem. You didn't say 'business'! Now they'd think it was something shady.

"What kind of business?" the knight asked suspiciously. See!

Alistair looked blank. Bannon cut in. "Family business. Daveth, here; he has family there." He shot Alistair a look. Hello? You're Daveth!

Ser Landry said, "Is that right?"

"Uh, yes! Yes, my sister lives in Lothering." Alistair nodded, warming up to his role. "We have to make sure she's all right."

"Lothering is being evacuated. You should wait for your sister further along."

"But my sister is a Sister," Alistair said. "I mean, she's a Sister with the Chantry. She wouldn't leave while there were still people there who needed aid." Bannon was actually impressed with this story. The sister who's a Sister. He'd have to remember that one.

The knight appeared to consider it, but the guardsman, Mulhoun or whatever his name was, spoke up. "They look like a couple of ruffians to me."

It was true; they couldn't hide their disheveled appearance. "We were lost in the Wilds," Bannon said. Mulhoun shot him a dirty look for speaking out of turn.

"Were you at Ostagar?" Ser Landry asked pointedly.

"Yes." It was the only plausible explanation. Soldiers at Ostagar, or thieves and looters lurking about. Bannon chose the one least likely to get them killed.

"Are you deserters?" Mulhoun growled.

"No!" Alistair snapped.

"Are you Grey Wardens?" Landry asked with a hard look.

"Grey Wardens? Hell, no!" Bannon replied heatedly. "We're from Denerim, guards with Lord Burdock's estate. We were up on the bridge," he said quickly, launching a plausibly-detailed story before anyone could interrupt with bothersome questions. "One of them giant fireballs hit and - well, I got knocked out. I think they tried to drag me back to the hospital, but they must've lost me in the evacuation, because I woke up and it was dark, see? And everybody was gone. Or dead. And then I found Daveth here; he was wounded, and there were darkspawn all over, but we went out the back gate, you know? And ended up in the Wilds."

Mulhoun glowered until Bannon finally shut up. "Your servant has a big mouth on him!"

"He's not my servant!" Alistair snapped. "He's my friend, so you better start showing him some more respect."

There was an awkward silence, and Bannon bit the inside of his lip. The soldiers eyed the Wardens with even more suspicion. Bannon cleared his throat and stepped closer to them, lowering his voice. "Uh," he said sheepishly, "Daveth here's had a serious head injury. He lost a lot of his mates in the battle." He rolled his eyes, not too unsympathetically, and tapped his pate. "He's a little confused at times." The men eyed Alistair again, and Bannon hoped they bought this line.

"What's your name?" Landry asked the elf.

"Pik, ser." Bannon tried to give them a sincere direct gaze, but it was difficult. He could smell food in the guardsman's unsecured satchel. His eyes kept trying to bore into it, and his stomach kept grumbling.

Mulhoun growled low. "I say we should hold 'em. They might still be some stinking Grey Wardens."

The knight's eyes bored into them. But he said, "I don't think so. I don't recall there being any elves in the Wardens."

"All the Wardens died at Ostagar," Alistair said. He furrowed his brow in anger.

"How can you be sure?" Mulhoun demanded, squinting one eye up at the taller man.

"I saw it," Alistair said. "From the bridge. They... the darkspawn overran them. Everyone in the ravine was killed. Everyone." His voice went dark. He'd only seen it in his dreams, but the truth was still real.

"They led King Cailen to his death," Landry said, his voice tight. "But they couldn't escape their own trap. They got what they deserved."

"Bastards," Bannon agreed heatedly. Beside him, Alistair tensed, his fists clenched, his teeth ground. He said nothing, but hatred radiated off him like heat from a forge. The elf put a hand on his arm. "Easy, ser. You don't want to start your nose bleeding again." Bannon turned to the soldiers and whispered loudly, "Don't want him to get worked up. He really hates those low-life scum who betrayed the king."

The knight nodded, easing back half a step so he didn't loom so threateningly. Mulhoun stubbornly folded his arms. Convincing the little terrier of a man wasn't going to be easy. He started grilling them. "Why didn't you come in with one of our patrols?"

Bannon glanced at Alistair to see if he were up to fielding these questions. The man only seethed in silent fury. Good. The elf said, "They shot at us, ser. They must've thought we were barbarians, or thieves, or something. So we ran away from them, ser."

"How did you avoid the darkspawn?"

"We saw some." Bannon shuddered. "We ran like hell, ser. We had to swing wide; that's how we ended up too far east. We were aiming for Lothering."

Mulhoun's eyes narrowed. "How did you survive, two weeks out in the Wilds, on your own?"

Bannon opened his mouth, but wasn't sure of a good answer to that one. Fortunately, he was saved from having to make a reply as Morrigan's cool voice rang out behind him. "Because they are under my protection."

Just as she appeared at the top of a broken ramp, she seemed to come out of nowhere and stride down the road towards them. The soldiers tensed, one hissed the word, "Chasind!" and several reached for their swords.

"Stay your weapons. I mean you no harm." Morrigan finished her slow saunter to stand next to the Wardens. She levelled an icy glare at the knight and his retinue. "I have given my word to see them safely to Lothering; Lothering is where we are going." Her tone brooked no argument.

Ser Landry studied her intently, but she did not wave under his gaze. The knight looked to the two men. "Shouldn't you get back to your unit in Denerim?"

"They're all dead, ser," Bannon told him. Then the realization hit him: Arl Urien was dead! He pushed that thought aside to examine it later.

"We don't have anyone," Alistair said grimly. "Just my sister."

"What's her name?" Landry asked.

"Goldana," Alistair answered immediately. Bannon flicked his gaze towards the man. He'd expected Alistair to need prompting or at least a moment to think on it.

"All right." The knight's brow smoothed as he came to a decision. "Mulhoun, escort them through the outpost."

"But ser," the guardsman prostested. "Shouldn't we hold them for questioning?"

The knight rubbed his forehead. "We did question them. There's no reason to hold them." His pale blue eyes turned to the Wardens. "I don't know what you'll find in Lothering, but Maker watch over you." He flicked his glance towards Morrigan. Politely, he bowed his head to her and stepped back, turning to offer them safe passage through the encampment.

"Yes, ser," Mulhoun said grudgingly. He cast a suspicious glance at Morrigan, then told them to come on.

The guards went back to their posts, Ser Landry and his knights returned to their duties. The Wardens and the witch followed Mulhoun.

...

There were more soldiers at the west end of the outpost, guarding the road. There were a greater number of them here, and they seemed more belligerant. It was more likely some Tainted folk from Lothering and the southern holdings would try to get through here, than the other way around. Mulhoun muttered that his charges were to be allowed through. He turned to favor them with one more suspicious glare, but he found only Alistair and Morrigan. "Where's your bloody elf?"

"Um, I don't know," Alistair confessed. He hadn't really been paying attention to his companion. He'd been busy trying not to look like himself, because he thought he recognized some of the knights they had passed. The guardsman scowled furiously. To forestall any disaster, Alistair said, "He's probably... you know." He gestured vaguely. "He'll be along any minute! We should just wait here. A minute. Or three."

"Damned knife-ears," Mulhoun grouched. He scanned the camp they had come through, but didn't move to chase after Bannon. Just yet.

...

A knight in Gwaren livery and commander's insignia came galloping down the road from Denerim. She slowed to a trot as the guards stepped back to allow her to pass. She dismounted at the command tent and tossed her reins to a knight standing nearby. "Tend my horse quickly," she ordered. "I will not be staying long."

"Yes, ser!" The knight saluted crisply, then he said, "Ser Landry is not in his tent, Ser Cauthrien."

"Fetch him at once." Cauthrien pulled her winged helmet off, shaking free her short ponytail of dark hair. "I bring orders from Teyrn Loghain."

...

Bannon squeezed between a picket rail and the back of the commander's tent. Despite the commotion out front, the back of the command tent was usually quiet, free of traffic, and out of sight. After all, the commander's private latrine was back here - thankfully secured in its own small tent. The elf pulled out the half wheel of cheese he'd pilfered from Mulhoun's satchel and began wolfing it down. It was some horribly smelly flavor, but he didn't care.

He paused when he heard Ser Landry and that other knight, Ser Cuth-something enter the tent. She said she had orders from Loghain. The elf wanted to know what the mighty general was up to.

"Reports indicate that Lothering will be hit within three days," the woman said. "The army is not slowing them down; we are suffering too many losses. Teyrn Loghain wants us to pull back." Her voice changed volume slightly as she paced back and forth on the other side of the tent wall. "Your orders, Ser Landry, are to pack up and move your troops to Denerim. Immediately."

"What about the quarantine? There are people who have just been placed there this hour."

"Eliminate them."

Silence followed this cold command. Bannon's stomach gurgled, and he clutched it to try to get it to shut up. He stuffed more cheese down his gullet. Well, if he were discovered here, they'd probably take it away from him.

Ser Landry said, "And if they're not sick?"

The woman's tone was direct and clear. "Which would you rather? To kill a few healthy people? Or to let even one Tainted person into a crowded city like Denerim?"

With a sigh, the knight relented. "Very well. I'll have my men do it at dawn. Then we shall be on our way to Denerim."

"Very good." The woman left the tent. Bannon thought he heard that Landry fellow leave as well.

He was certain when the knight came around the side of the tent and spotted him. Bannon jumped to his feet, clutching the last bit of cheese. "Wait!" the knight forestalled him. "It's all right, Pik," he said more gently. "Go ahead and finish."

Bannon gulped down the food, nearly choking himself in haste. "It's all right," Landry insisted. He held out a satchel stuffed with a few supplies. "Here, I'd like you to take this to your friend." The elf just eyed the packet a moment, then gave the knight a flat look. Landry let his hand drop. "Oh, of course. Mulhoun will think you've stolen it." He rubbed his forehead again. "Sorry, I've been having- well, never mind." Was he having a bad day? He was going to slaughter a bunch of people in the morning; couldn't get much worse than their day. Still, the knight looked troubled. "I'll walk you down there, then."

Bannon licked crumbled bits cheese from his hands as he followed the knight. They quickly came upon the western guardpost, where Mulhoun was fuming and stomping around.

"You!" the irate guardsman sputtered, aiming a finger at the elf as if to spear him with it. "You stole my cheese!"

"Mulhoun," Landry cut in smoothly; "have you been hoarding rations again?"

"Uh..." The man froze in mid-accusation, his mouth open. "Er, no ser!"

"Return to your post."

"Yes, ser." He scuttled off.

Ser Landry turned to Alistair and gave him the satchel. "It's not much, I know," he said apologetically. "Just..." Words seemed to fail him.

"Thank you," Alistair said quietly.

Then the rain started pattering down in earnest. There was nothing more to say. The fugitives turned and started towards Lothering. The knight returned to his duties.

...

Alistair dug into the satchel. Cheese! Glorious cheese! He broke the small wheel in half and handed some to Bannon. The other half he started chomping on. "Looka thith," he said, mouth full. "A razah! Oh, thanh the Makah!"

"You better not use that just yet," Bannon said, taking a bit more time with his share of the cheese.

"Why not?"

"How many people at Ostagar saw you hanging around with Duncan?"

"Uh... oh."

The elf nodded. "Yeah, it'd be better if you were less recognizeable."

The three of them walked on a bit in silence. Well, silent except for the sounds of starving men wolfing down food. The road continued in a steady downslope away from the outpost, and soon met the ground. Some trees gathered on the north side of the roadway, lending them a bit of shelter from the rain.

Alistair finished his cheese too quickly, and he watched Bannon finishing off his own rind. He tried not to stare, but... damn, that elf had some self-control eating so slowly! The former-Templar's stomach growled in protest. "Listen," he started, restraining himself from asking if the elf were going to finish eating that. "That was quick thinking, back there. I... well, I'm glad you took charge, because to be honest, I'm rubbish at that sort of thing. Actually, I was thinking..." Alistair nibbled his lip, shooting a glance towards the witch, who was remaining eerily silent behind them. This wasn't going to be easy. If she said one word...! "I think you should be in charge. That is, in command as it were."

Bannon gave him a quizzical look. "Me? What do I know about commanding?"

"What do you need to know? You're just smarter than me." Alistair sighed. "I'm really horrid at making decisions; I'm a terrible choice for a leader of anything. I'm a really terrific follower, though!"

The elf stopped. Alistair and Morrigan had to stop as well, and they faced each other. "You're serious?" Bannon asked.

"Yes, I'm serious." How could he make them understand? "I know I've been a Grey Warden for longer than you, but I don't actually know all that much. It's only by a few weeks, anyway. I can't be in charge. I don't know what to do." Alistair's eyes darted back and forth between the two. Puzzlement, contempt, uncertainty; that's what he saw. "Look, if you put me in charge, I'll just command you to be in command."

"All right," Bannon said, holding up a hand to make the rush of words stop. He handed the last few bites of the cheese rind to Alistair. "Go there, into those trees and find a place to wait for me. I'll be back in a while."

Confused, the Templar looked at the cheese. "What? Where are you going?" He looked up. The elf was already moving back up the road.

He half-turned while still walking. "Just do it. I'll explain when I get back. Oh," he added; "if I'm not back by nightfall, you should go on without me."

Alistair just stared at Morrigan. The witch slowly raised one brow. Before she could find something scathing to say, he turned and found a broken spot in the stone railing where he could move into the trees. He shoved the cheese rind into his mouth.

The trees grew a bit thicker, then Alistair found a small clearing with a boulder. He contemplated sitting on the boulder, but that would mean getting more rain on himself. So he leaned back against a tree and waited.

"What do you supposed he's up to?" Morrigan asked him.

Great, he was stuck here alone with her. "You don't have to stay here, you know," he told her. "We can find Lothering on our own from here."

"I said I had given my word to see you safely to the village, and that is what I shall do."

Alistair snorted. _'Safely to the village' my arse_, he thought. _Only if we don't die of starvation, or exposure, or eating poisonous plants first..._ He didn't bother answering the witch's first question, and she didn't press him on it. Which was good, because he had _no_ idea.


	14. Lothering Night

Lothering Night

* * *

><p>CONTENT<p>

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama, some Humor

Language: swearing

Violence: armed combat, killing

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

Author's Notes:

I know, I'm probably the only one who refers to Leliana as a nun. Don't lynch me.

I'm placing my 'food label' Content info on my FFN posts from now on. Because the stupid 'Share' button is always stuffing itself into the first paragraph.

* * *

><p>Bannon went back and made free with the pompous Lord Kessel's goods. After all, come dawn, he wasn't going to be needing it. A fact he had to explain to Alistair when the uptight Templar started berating him for stealing from people in desperate straits. Like the Grey Wardens weren't?<p>

They travelled on sullenly in the rain. The clatter of hooves gave them just enough time to get off the road before a knight thundered past, coming from Lothering. Bannon had already dodged one heading west to the village; he wondered if it were the same one. Perhaps it was that woman who'd brought Ser Landry his orders. Was she looking for them? The knight hadn't mentioned their presence, but if that bristly-faced terrier Mulhoun had caught her attention, he'd no doubt spilled his tale of suspicious Grey Wardens.

...

The rain had eased up into a grey drizzle when they came across the first huge break in the Highway. Half the road was in large stone chunks, piled up on the other half. The three companions picked their way past the breach. On the other side stood a wooden shack, and five grungy-looking men filed out of it. They almost looked as rough as Alistair, but these men had seen food and a razor in the past two weeks.

"Allo, allo," the grizzled leader said cheerfully, stepping into the Wardens' path with a raised hand. "We're collecting taxes for the upkeep of this here King's Highway."

"Your king is dead," Morrigan said sternly. "In case you hadn't heard."

The brigand nodded. "'Tis in mem-o-reeum of our dearly departed ruler." He grinned wide, showing a gap where he'd lost a lower tooth. "Don't worry, luvvie, if you don't have money, we do take services in trade."

"We do?" the biggest fellow in the back asked.

"Shut up, Ox," the leader told him wearily. "Now then, your valuables, if you please."

Morrigan was busy glaring, so Alistair put his two coppers in. "For the 'upkeep of the Highway'? Like that bit there?" The Templar jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Takes a lot of money for a repair job that size."

Ox said, "Repair job? I thought we was jus' robbin' them."

The brigand leader slapped a hand to his forehead. "Can't a body have a bit o' fun at his job?"

Bannon nudged Alistair. "They're _highwaymen._ Get it?" The Templar only rolled his eyes. Bah, wasn't he the one who told Bannon to always keep his sense of humor? "Give them our fine-quality goods, there."

"Eh?"

"Those fine, high-quality items that Flemeth so kindly gave us," Bannon reiterated with a pointed look at the bundle of cloth Alistair was carrying.

"Oh! Right!" He unslung it and handed it over to the bandit leader. The man grinned and started unwrapping the fancy shirts from each other. It would probably take him a few moments to figure out there wasn't anything in the shirts but more shirts.

Meanwhile, Bannon opened his sack and started handing stuff to the other bandits. "Here's a nice bedroll for you... leg of mutton for you... Alistair, give that big fellow your shield."

"My-? Are you sure?" The human looked at the elf as if he'd gone insane.

"Oh yes, he looks strong enough to hold it."

Bewildered, Alistair obeyed, slinging his shield off his shoulder and handing it to Ox. Ox took it, looking just as bewildered. The big man turned it in his hands, gaping at it.

Bannon was still handing out presents from the sack. "And for _you_," he said to a dark, twitchy thief, "take this!" He reached up, whipped out his sword, and brought it down in a vicious arc on the guy's face. Bone crunched and blood spattered. Bannon kicked the guy to free his sword.

The bandits roared in fury, threw down the goods, and fumbled for their own weapons. Next to Bannon, the witch hissed an invective and a gout of flame unfurled from her hands. It engulfed the leader's head. His scream was short-lived, as the fire burned away his mouth and throat, and his body collapsed, lifeless. The flames spilled around their target and licked towards the other brigands - not to mention Bannon! He dodged reflexively. Damned witch would kill them all!

The man behind the leader went down, the right side of his chest in flames. The other two were singed. Bannon took a swing at the nearest one's neck. The man barely dodged, distracted as he was by fire and sword. Bannon pulled out his long dagger, knowing he would have to face two opponents and parry two blades. Morrigan wasted no time lancing the bandits with bolts of magic.

Meanwhile, Alistair drew his sword and attacked the man holding his shield. Ox tried to draw his weapon, but it was a heavy, two-handed maul. Like a child with his hand stuck in the cookie jar, he wouldn't let go of his prize, and even as big as he was, he couldn't wield the maul in one hand. Alistair made short work of him.

Bannon _thought_ he'd be facing two opponents - perhaps he'd been fighting too many darkspawn. The two bandits turned and ran. The elf lunged after his target, but missed as his foot caught on something. Looking down, he realized it was twitch's hand, grabbing him. The brigand snarled around the bloody cleft in his face. "Get them!" Bannon yelled to his companions.

Twitch was bringing his dagger to bear. Bannon thrust his sword down, his weight behind it allowing it to punch through leather armor and rib bones and into his chest.

Morrigan unleashed another white bolt of magical energy, and her target dropped with a scream. Alistair charged the other, skipping around a large crack in the roadway. Bannon shook off the hand grasping him and darted after the other Warden.

The bandit threw himself down and twisted to fix Alistair with a desperate look. "Don't kill me!" He dropped his sword and raised his hands. "I'll never do it again, I swear!" Alistair stopped, his sword raised. Moved by pity, he began to lower it. Bannon came up and without hesitation, thrust his sword into the man's neck.

Alistair winced as the body slumped over. "He was surrendering!" the Templar snapped.

"Oh, come on!" the elf shot back. "He was trying to save his ass. You didn't believe he'd really never rob anyone again, did you?"

Alistair bit his lip and looked down at the scruffy corpse. "I hate lying thieves," he growled.

The Wardens returned to the site of the attack. Alistair insisted on draggng the corpses off the side of the road. Bannon let him do that while he talked to Morrigan.

"Fire?" he griped at the witch.

She sniffed. "I didn't like the way he was looking at me."

"They were holding our stuff!" The elf bent to start shoving things back into the sack.

"And what idiot started handing it all to them?"

Bannon straightened, giving the sack a good shake to settle the contents. "Come on, that was fu-!" He gave up with a sigh. "Alistair, you going to grab those shirts?"

"Not likely," the Templar said sourly.

"What, those are highly valuable shirts. And they did just save our lives."

"If I never see that paisley monstrosity again, it will be too soon."

Bannon sighed and grabbed a couple of the shirts that had mostly managed to avoide being burnt, trampled, or spattered with blood. He shoved them into the sack, making a note to dry them out later. Then he went into the bandits' shack. Everything they had pilfered now belonged to the Grey Wardens by right of conquest. Most of it was useless junk. There was a large chest. The lock was too large for Bannon's small skeleton key, but the bandit leader had a lovely set of heavy duty lockpicks. As for the key, it might be anywhere. Bannon had the chest open in a trice. Most if it was in copper coin, but also a respectable mount of silver. Best of all were a few gold and jewelry trinkets - very portable wealth! The sack weighed three times as much when he was done.

...

Lothering was a little village that happened where the ancient Imperial Highway had broken down and became impassable. Traffic had to make its way through town to get past the break. A large inn was built to take advantage of this traffic, and several shops and farmsteads grew up around it. The Chantry, of course, had a presence here ever since there had been at least a dozen people to come to worship. From its humble beginnings, Lothering became a pleasant little community.

The Wardens and the witch stopped on the ramp overlooking the town. "It's getting dark," Alistair said, peering through the rain towards the lights. "We should head to the inn. I can't wait to get a decent night's rest."

Bannon elbowed him and shot him a look. The elf turned to the witch, the Templar following suit. "Morrigan, I want to thank you for getting us safely to Lothering."

"Um, yes. Thank you." Alistair managed not to sound entirely like a petulant child forced to mouth the words. "But we can manage from here. I'm sure you're anxious to get back to your mother." That part sounded more hopeful than sure, and more of an excuse to get rid of Morrigan than anything.

"I'm not leaving," she said.

"You're not leaving?" Alistair goggled.

The witch crossed her arms and raised her chin. "I have seen what these darkspawn are like. I have seen what they are doing to the Wilds. Mother was right, they may simply overrun our house, leaving it a blackened wasteland." She paused for a breath, carefully drawing a wet wisp of hair away from her face. "I wish to join you in your quest to defeat them."

Bannon considred a moment. Then he nodded. "We'd be glad to have your help."

"Um, excuse me!" Alistair said, instantly drestoying any credence to those words. "Can we discuss this a moment?" The Wardens moved off several paces. "Tell me you're joking," Alistair said low.

"Look, you've seen her in a fight. She's worth two or three soldiers," Bannon insisted. "We can use her."

The Templar scowled, thrusting out his jaw in mulish ire. "Balanced, negatively, by the fact she may yet just kill us. Or - " he was quick to add- "drive me mad enough to run her through." At least he had the presence of mind to lower his voice to a whisper so the witch wouldn't overhear that part.

"I can handle her," Bannon said, slowly and firmly. "If _you_ just don't antagonize her into incinerating us. Do you think you can manage that much?"

Alistair ground his teeth. "Things will have to change." He turned back to Morrigan. "If you come with us," he told her, "you're not in charge any more. You have to do as we say."

"Of course," she agreed with cool aplomb. "My expertise is in the Wilds, and in magic. In your quest as Grey Wardens, I am at your disposal." She actually sounded the faintest bit humble, there. As cold and uncaring as she seemed on the outside, she must truly be disturbed by the thought of the Blight destroying her home.

"Well," Alistair said brightly; "you can humbly serve and p- OW!" This last when Bannon elbowed him hard in the gut. Damn, but those metal plates hurt. He was going to have to find a stick or something to smack Alistair with.

"I will obey orders from the commander of the expedition," Morrigan told Alistair pointedly. "Since you are too incompetent to lead."

"I am not! I - uh..." Alistair got tangled up in his own lie, since that's basically why he'd told Bannon to take the lead earlier. "I just don't like to."

"Oh, you are simply so weak that you enjoy submitting to someone junior to yourself in rank. That's quite unusual in a Templar."

"I am not! I do not!"

Bannon walked towards Lothering, clearly almost forgotten in the exchange. The witch and Templar followed, still bickering. The elf seriously hoped he could get these two a private room!

...

Actually getting to the inn wasn't so simple. Lothering was overrun with refugees. A couple of townsmen acting as guards turned them away at the bridge leading into the village, yet again accusing them of being ruffians, or brigands, or something worse. Bannon expressed an openness to paying a bribe, but they scoffed at his silver coins.

So they picked their way through the mud of a ramshackle camp. Feral eyes stared at them from dirty faces. People clutched their meagre belongings tighter. The whole place smelled of sewage. It was, in fact, worse than the alienage in Denerim.

Bannon found a place for them to ford the stream and sneak into town. It didn't help that the stream was clearly used as the latrines for the camp. The shems complained about the muck and the stench, but they couldn't get much dirtier and wetter than they already were. Maybe the rain would wash them down some.

They made it to the inn; the place was packed. Smoke hazed the air near the high rafters; the smell of food, ale, sweat, and wet human filled the air. Every chair and bench was full. Some people even huddled under the tables, or on the floor, in the corners, on the stairs. The Wardens stood in the entry, blinking in the bright light, dripping on the floor. Morrigan wasted no time in going to the fireplace and pushing her way to a spot near the flames. A lot of her outfit was skin; it should dry quickly.

Bannon threaded his way through the crowd to the bar. He pulled off his helmet to let his ears unkink for a while. "How much for a loaf of bread and three bowls of stew?"

"Forty-eight silver," the barman grumbled.

Bannon choked at the outragous price. He'd _thought_ the bandits' money had left them well-off, but at this rate...! He dreaded asking how much for a room.

The barman snorted at his reaction. "You don't like it? Complain to that weasel Stafford. Food's scarce these days." He planed one hand over his balding pate. "Room is dear too, so don't go asking. If you can find a place to sit, welcome to it." He gestured at the crowded tables.

A burly soldier shoved his way to the bar on Bannon's left. "Piss off, you grubby knife-ears." Grubby? The man's splintmail hadn't seen a proper scrubbing in a while. Rust and dried blood caked between the plates. Another soldier bumped Bannon's right arm roughly as he bellied up to the bar.

"I got money, same as you," the elf growled low.

"Probably stole it, same place you stole those weapons, and your pretty armor." The guy on the right tugged at the leather pauldron covering Bannon's shoulder. The elf jerked his arm away, wary of being pushed into the first soldier. These were the fine soldiers of Ferelden, charged with protecting and helping the citizens? They weren't any better than the thugs robbing people.

Alistair moved into a space quickly being created around the beleagured elf. "Leave him alone!"

The soldier on Bannon's right kept a close eye on him, ready to stop him if he tried to draw his sword. The other one turned and gave Alistair a scathing once-over. "Hey, Knight-Seargent Pierce," he called. "Looks like that scruffy man and his little elf Ser Cauthrien told us about."

More soldiers appeared as the crowd melted further back. One wore the plate armor and insignia of a seargent, and the livery of Gwaren. _Shit,_ thought Bannon. He carefully turned and started counting soldiers.

"You two," the knight-seargent growled as he stepped forward. "You're Grey Wardens!" The crowded tavern went deathly silent. All eyes turned on Alistair and Bannon. The glares ranged between wary to downright hostile.

"No we're not!" Alistair insisted. Brilliant save, that.

The knight stopped two paces from him, glowering with hatred. Before he could do or say anything, a Chantry Sister pulled away from the crowd and stood beside the two men. She was short, with a waif-like face, and red hair neatly tied back. "Gentlemen," she said, her voice soft, yet pitched to carry easily over the entire common room. "There is no need for trouble. Surely these men are simply more poor souls seeking refuge."

The knight put out a hand. "Stay out of this, Sister. We don't want anyone hurt, but you'll get the same as these traitors if you try to interfere."

"Just how are we traitors?" Bannon challenged him.

"Regent Loghain claims the Grey Wardens betrayed the king and led him to his death."

"And you believe that?" Alistair asked. "The Wardens died defending King Cailen!"

"They failed in their treachery," Ser Pierce insisted. "They got caught in their own trap and perished - as they deserved!"

"It's Loghain who is responsible for the death of the king," Alistair shot back heatedly. "He didn't attack with the reinforcements!"

"It was a lost cause." Pierce didn't back down. "General Loghain recognized the trap and pulled us out. He saved all of us from slaughter." If Alistair thought he could reason with this man, he was deluding himself. The knight was clearly loyal to their leader.

"Can I give him my shield now?" Alistair asked over his shoulder.

"Hell, yeah," Bannon said. "Give him your helmet, too." The knight had been eating, he wasn't wearing his helmet. Alistair still had his on. If he just head-butted the guy, the rim of the visor would cave in his nose. But, judging by Alistair's confused hesitation, Templars weren't trained to fight that way.

"Grab the Wardens!" Pierce snarled. "Kill anyone who gets in your way!" His sword cleared the scabbard and met Alistair's overhead in a ringing clang.

Bannon dropped straight to the floor as the soldiers lunged for him. They managed to bruise their hands on each other's armor. Bannon didn't bother going for the blades strapped to his back. He pulled out his belt knife and stabbed up under one man's armored skirting and into his groin. It didn't kill him straight away, but he dropped, and his screaming unnerved his comrades.

The elf dove against the other man's legs, throwing him into several patrons crowded at the bar. Bannon used the reprieve to draw his sword and long dagger.

"Look out!" The redheaded Chantry Sister appeared at his side, a sword in her hand having materialized from somewhere. Bannon ducked and she deflected another soldier's blade from his neck. Bannon had counted six of them. An arrow whizzed past his face from the direction of the kitchen. Make that seven.

"Morrigan! Archer!" The soldier Bannon had toppled got himself back on his feet with some shoving from the people he'd landed on. They pushed him right into Bannon's swordthrust. The shock of the blade hitting armor ran up his arm. It also knocked the wind out of the soldier. Bannon cut across with his short blade, slicing open the man's neck.

Two more closed in on him and the Sister. Another charged Alistair's back while he was fencing with their leader. Flashes of blue-white magic blazed between bodies and struck their targets. "Stay down!" Alistair yelled at the panicked people. Some tried to flee, coming dangerously close to getting skewered in the fight. Most had the sense to dive under a table.

The Chantry Sister's blade danced and rang against her opponent's. She wielded it handily, but didn't seem to be able to land any killing blows. The soldier called her something one really oughtn't call the Maker's nuns, and redoubled his attack.

When one of his companions joined the fray, she exploded into a whirlwind of blows. "I tried to be merciful!" she snarled viciously as blood flew. She opened one man's neck; he fell with a shocked look on his face. She turned gracefully and stabbed the other through the armpit. Wheezing blood, he collapsed next to his comrade in arms.

Bannon knew if he tried to imitate her finesse, he'd be the one who got skewered. So he stuck to the basics: boot to the groin, stab to the chest, slash to the neck. It wasn't pretty, but it worked.

Between their blades and Morrigan's magic, they finished off all the soldiers. Alistair still fought the knight-seargent, blade to blade, shield to shield. Bannon and the Sister flanked him, presenting a unified wall of blades.

"Stop!" the knight cried. "I yield." He lowered his sword and shield and dropped to one knee.

"Drop your weapon," Alistair said, drawing back into a defensive stance. The knight complied, and Bannon bit back a curse. Not again!

The nun drew back as well. With a twirl of her blade, she shook blood from it and slid it into a sheath at her belt. "You have defeated him," she stated, looking pointedly at Bannon and his blades. "He is no longer a threat to you."

Bannon snorted. "The first thing he's going to do is run off and bring more soldiers." He hefted his sword to get a good bead on the man's throat.

The Sister moved to block him. "You cannot kill him! He has surrendered."

"We can't afford to let Loghain know where we are."

"Perhaps he will swear not to." Her sea-blue eyes pleaded for mercy.

Bannon glanced at Alistair. The human bit his lip. He didn't like this, but it was his own damned fault for accepting the knight's surrender. "You heard him," Bannon said low. "He believes Loghain. He is too loyal to let this pass." Alistair licked his lips and looked away.

Bannon moved past the Sister, pressed close to the knight. The man was backed up against a table. Bannon gripped the top of the shield with his left hand, pinning the hilt of his long dagger against the rim. He pushed the shield down until the tip rested firmly on the floor, so he could look into the shem's face. His sword he held firmly, but not threateningly. "So. Would you betray Loghain? To save your life, I mean."

Pierce met his stare levelly. Sweat gleamed on his brow from the intense fight with Alistair. He slowly clenched his jaw. He swallowed.

"You're loyal to Loghain," Bannon insisted. "No matter what we say, or do, or come to an agreement over, you're going to go straight to him and report, send more of his men after us. Isn't that right?" He shoved his weight against the knight's shield, shaking him. "Yes or no?"

Knight-Seargent Pierce made a decision. He lifted his chin proudly. "Yes. That's right."

Bannon struck, thrusting his sword into the man's throat. Trust a knight to get all chivilrous over dying. "Unfortunate," the elf growled, stepping back to let the body slump to the floor. He said it to make the nun feel better - as well as Alistair, and the tavern patrons still gathered within earshot. Louder, he said to everyone, "The Grey Wardens are not the betrayers at Ostagar. Loghain left the king to die. He withdrew the army so he could return to Denerim and seize the empty throne. The Wardens only want one thing: to end this Blight."

He turned back to make sure the Chantry Sister wasn't about to skewer him for murdering an unarmed man or something. She seemed mollified by the knight's acceptance of his own execution. Alistair looked unhappy as well, but he had to know it was the best course.

"I apologize for interfering," the nun said. Her voice had a strange lilt to it, giving it a musical quality. "I am surprised that an elf is a Grey Warden," she said, looking at Bannon again. Then she gave her attention to Alistair. "But they must want to see the Blight ended, too, as much as anyone, I suppose."

Alistair nodded politely. As a Templar trained in the Chantry, he was far too polite to interrupt or ignore the clergy. "Oh, forgive my manners once more," she said. Did she apologize for treating Bannon like Alistair's dog? Of course not. "I have not properly introduced myself. My name is Leliana."

Bannon ignored her as she prattled on about the Maker and the Chantry. Let Alistair deal with her. He rifled Ser Pierce's belt pouch, then moved to the other soldiers. He also went to check on Morrigan, who hadn't deigned to give up her spot by the fire. He looked at the corpse sprawled at her feet. "That doesn't look like a soldier."

"I didn't like the way he was looking at me." She said it loudly enough that the others near the fire heard.

Again? Bannon shrugged. That was the witch's business. He handed her a key that he'd gotten off one of the actual soldiers. "I've procured a room for you, for the night." She snorted, but at least it was an appreciative snort. The townsman or farmer or whoever he'd been didn't have anything of value on him.

"Some food would not be amiss," Morrigan suggested imperiously, rather than, say, asking. "Or shall I go hunt in the night?"

"Just getting to that," he assured her. She followed him back across the room. They paused in the middle of the carnage, where Alistair was still held hostage by the chatting nun.

Leliana's sea-blue eyes caught upon Morrigan. "And who is this enchanting creature?"

"Creature?" Morrigan repeated with a frown.

Alistair jumped in. "Uh, this is Morrigan. She's with us." He didn't say the word 'unfortunately,' but he hardly needed to. The implication of his tone was quite clear. The Templar turned to Bannon, possibly sensing the elf about to make another escape. "Leliana here has been telling me about this prophetic dream she's had."

"Yes," the Sister agreed. "The Maker sent me a vision. I am here to help you."

"Oh, the Maker sent you?" Bannon said cheerily. "Welcome aboard!"

"Then... you believe me?" Her whole face brightened. "Oh, I knew the Maker sent me a True Dream! A vision, that by serving you, I serve His holy plan."

Bannon blinked. Oh. She was _serious?_ Alistair stared goggle-eyed at him. Morrigan gave him a speculative look. "Perhaps your skull was cracked worse than Mother thought."

Just to annoy them more, Bannon grinned. Hey, if the Maker wanted to send him a redhead to serve him...! "The Grey Wardens accept aid wherever it is offered, my lady." He swept a graceful bow. Leliana's smile widened, causing her cheeks to dimple. Alistair rolled his eyes.

Morrigan said, "Please. I thought you were procuring our food. Preferably before I become even more nauseous."

Bannon returned to his vacated place at the bar. The barman was much paler than the last time he'd seen him. "I don't want any trouble," the man blurted. "Your business is... yours." His eyes darted towards the cooling bodies. "But please..."

Bannon held up a placating hand. "Sorry about the mess," he said pleasantly. "I'm sure whoever you get to clear out the bodies would be happy to have salvage rights on their weapons and armor." The barkeep bobbed his head, his adam's apple jumping up and down in counterpoint. "And," Bannon coninued brightly, "I understand you've just had some rooms become vacant. Don't worry about the keys, we have those. If you could just point out which rooms they are...?"

"Certainly, ser! Second floor; the one at the end of the hall, and the corner room next to it."

Bannon also had the man send food up to their rooms. No mention was made of paying extra. Alistair was concerned the rooms would be shared, with so many people crowding the place and even sleeping in the halls. Bannon assured him that soldiers don't share. The fact that they had two rooms meant they weren't even sharing with each other. Hell, if he was going to steal rooms at the inn, he was going to get the best!

Leliana had a pack and a lute in a corner of the room - items no one dared touch after her display in the fight. She gladly accepted an offer to stay in Morrigan's room. The witch seethed, but could say nothing. After all, she was a guest of the Grey Wardens as well.

They had to cross the crowded room to get to the stairs. They had no trouble whatsoever. People got out of their way. Bannon noticed the frightened faces, the eyes cast aside, and he tried to supress a smile that crept across his face. He'd just killed (murdered, in cold blood) a ranking shem knight in front of dozens of people. And no one dared do a thing about it. He felt like a beast - one of those heraldic desert lions. When they came prowling through, all the smaller animals stepped aside.

Of course, it was quite possible there'd be a contingent of Templars out front tomorrow morning, waiting to arrest him. He pushed that thought aside. For now, he was somebody. Somebody dangerous.

...

The corner room was quite spacious; it had two beds and a table. Bannon wondered if the soldiers had slept three and four in the rooms, or if Pierce had kept this one all to himself. The Wardens devoured at least four helpings of dinner. Even Bannon felt a little piggish, so he sent some silvers down with the barmaid to help cover the cost. Plus he had them haul up hot water and wash cloths. There was no tub, but after cold streams and ponds in the Wilds, the two men were in the lap of luxury.

Alistair scrubbed at his beard and contemplated himself in the small mirror over the wash basin. "Say, Bannon... I was thinking. Since Loghain's men already recognized us anyway, um, can I...?"

"Oh please, yes! That thing gives me nightmares."

Alistair grabbed the soap and razor. "Oh, thank the Maker!"

"You're welcome," Bannon quipped as he sorted through the loot, junk, and assorted shirts in the sack.

Alistair snorted. "Listen," he said, carefully trimming his beard; "about this Sister Leliana... You don' actually believe the Maker speaks to her?"

Bannon shrugged. "No. Well, don't you? You were trained in the Chantry, right? I thought you believed in the Maker."

"I do! It's just that the Maker does not go around talking to people." He put down the razor and soaped up the bristles on his face. "We have a word for people who hear the voice of the Maker. It's called 'insane.'"

"Insane nun or not, I don't see how you can complain about her. Not after Morrigan."

"So you are serious about taking her with us?"

"Why not?" said the elf. "She wants to fight darkpsawn. Anyone who does has to be crazy, anyway."

"Can't argue with that." Alistair tipped his head and drew the razor along his jaw. "But fighting isn't something they teach the cloistered Sisters."

Bannon shook out the damp shirts and draped them over the chair backs. He put Alistair's favorite paisley one on the footboard of his bed. "You didn't see her in that brawl. Oh, she can fight."

"Maybe she's not actually a Sister?"

"Probably not." Bannon repacked their collection of belongings. He'd have to see about finding a sturdier pack tomorrow. When Alistair finished shaving, he tossed the human a full waterskin.

"What's this for? They have fresh water here."

"It's Lord Kessel's. And it's not a waterskin."

Alistair's eyes lit up. "Wine? Oh yes, thank the Maker!" He popped the spout open and took a gulp. "Splaugh! For a Lord, he sure keeps cheap wine."

Bannon shrugged - like he knew good wine? He leaned back on the pillows at the head of his bed, stretching out his legs. "You know, you missed a spot." He tapped his chin, just below his lips.

Alistair rubbed a finger over his own chin. "Oh, that's how I wear my beard. You don't like it? It says, 'I am a man. But I am subdued.'"

The elf thought it said, 'I'm careless and I don't know how to shave properly yet,' but what did he know about beards? "I've seen worse." That was no lie.

Alistair tipped his head back, his reddened, newly-shaven throat working as he gulped the wine. He lowered the skin and let out a prodigious burp. "Oh. 'Scuse me."

Bannon chuckled. He was such a Chantry-boy! "'Salright. Hey, remind me sometime to teach you how to fight dirty."

"Templars don't fight dirty!"

Obviously! "You're not a Templar," Bannon reminded him.

"Grey Wardens fight dirty?"

"Grey Wardens get the job done." Bannon waved a finger in his general direction. "You could've ended that fight with the seargent before it started. One headbutt to the face. Bam!"

Alistair made a face at that thought. "He was a damned good swordsman, though."

"My point exactly. He might've coulda taken you."

The Templar (ex-Templar) frowned and mulled over his wineskin. "Listen. I don't... I mean, I asked you to take charge, and I'm not saying you were wrong, but... I don't know about killing people after they surrender."

"Come on, Alistair. The guy admitted it, he was just going to turn around and try to capture or kill us again."

"You're right, you're right," he said placatingly. "And about the thief, too. Just... sometimes, some people deserve a second chance."

"Look, don't worry about it," Bannon said. "If we meet someone like that, then sure."

"Ah, good." Alistair got up and put out the candles. He noticed the paisley shirt and shot it an evil look, but didn't say anything. He turned the lamp on the stand between the beds down low, leaving the room dimly lit with a warm, comforting glow. The human climbed into his bed, propping himself up on the pillows, and the two Wardens drank their wine in companionable silence.

It reminded Bannon of home. Oh, it was bigger than home, with a much nicer bed, but it was four wooden walls, sturdy furniture, comfortable shadows, and the drift of voices from the crowd. He wondered what his dad was doing - snoring up a storm, probably. And Shianni... he hoped she was all right.

Arl Urien was dead, so he wouldn't be screaming for vengeance over Vaughn's death. Bannon tried to think that would be good news for Soris, but he just didn't see how. There was no Arl in Denerim, so who would be in charge? Not the queen; the knight had called Loghain 'Regent.' That meant he was running the kingdom for his daughter, Queen Anora. Would Loghain declare pardons for all criminals held in Fort Drakon in celebration of his regency? Hell, no. He'd probably start ordering a lot of executions. Clear the place out that way.

Bannon drained his wineskin, looking for peace. He couldn't do anything to help his cousin. He was far away, and Maker knew, he had his own problems staying alive. The wine didn't last long enough. Bannon threw it angrily to the foot of his bed, then rolled onto his side, drawing the coverlet up over his shoulder.

Alistair's voice drifted muzzily out of the darkeness. "Hey, Bannon...?"

"Hm?"

"I wanted to say, I'm sorry."

"Whafor?"

"I really lost it. After... after Ostagar." The human's voice was low, a bit slurred with wine, and carried a strained timbre. "Duncan warned me. We were in a battlefield, for Andraste's sake; any one of us could die at any time. I- I should have handled it better. Especially with so much riding on us. I'm sorry."

"'Sokay."

"I'd like him to have a proper funeral. One day. Duncan, I mean. He didn't have any family."

"You two were close," Bannon said.

"Yes. He was like a father to me. Maybe he saw - eh, I dunno." Alistair's voice drifted. "Highever; I think he said he was from there. Maybe I'll go there, someday. After all this is over. I'd like to build him a memorial..." After a moment, he came back. "Have you... ever had someone close to you die?"

"Yes," Bannon answered. "My mother was killed."

"I'm sorry."

"It... it was years ago. It's..." Bannon shrugged under his covers. "I didn't handle it very well, either."

Bed ropes creaked as the human shifted position. "Thanks for talking."

"Mm."

...

Leliana sat in her bed, watching the dark-haired woman prepare for sleep. Morrigan pulled the pins from her hair, letting it fall in a midnight cascade down over her shoulders. "I could braid that for you," Leliana suggested.

"No." The other woman deftly twisted the hair into a loose rope that would keep it from going wild and snarling itself as she slept.

"You do have exquisite hair," the Chantry Sister prattled. "Perhaps tomorrow we can try another style on it, yes? And I have plenty of make-up. I think I have a plum eyeshadow that will really make your exotic eyes shine."

Morrigan rolled those exotic eyes. "I don't think so."

"But you do wish to catch the eye, yes? Of course you do. That brave fall of fabric, showing off your skin, looking almost bare from the rear." The Sister smiled wistfully. "And that jewelry, drawing the eye to the center of your chest, where the cloth is artfully arranged to reveal just enough, hm?" She wrinkled her nose conspirationally.

Slowly, Morrigan turned to her. "Are you staring at my breasts?" she asked dangerously.

"But of course." The waif's sea-blue eyes blinked. "Is that not the effect you were trying to achieve?"

The witch ground her teeth. "Look here, _Sister_, I'll make you a deal. You cut out the personal remarks, and you'll wake up with all your skin intact. Deal?"

Leliana lowered her gaze and... was she pouting? "Very well. If you insist."

Morrigan returned to the small mirror, regarding her reflection. She turned her head this way and that. Eyeshadow, hm? "I do not wish to look like a raccoon," she said snippily. She tried hooding her eyes. Was that making the shadows darker?

"I promise, the effect will be bold, yet subtle."

"Hm." Ridiculous! Morrigan was already beautiful, what did she need painting and decorating for? "We shall see," she said. Completely noncommitally, of course.


	15. Lothering, Day part 1

Lothering, Day (part 1)

CONTENT:

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama, comedy

Language: some

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

Author's Notes:

I've fallen victim to modern times, and made Sten a big grey ox-head.

This is in two parts, because I missed my deadline.

* * *

><p>Party Banter: The Bandersnatch<p>

_The next morning..._

Bannon: Alistair, where's that shirt that was hanging here?

Alistair: Oh... you know what? I think the window was unlatched last night, and a bandersnatch got in and, well, snatched it.

Bannon: Bandersnatch?

Alistair: Yes; they do that, you know. Very common around here.

Bannon: That's a shame... I know how much you liked that shirt.

Alistair: Mm, yes! I'm heartbroken.

Lothering: Day (part 1)

(_Warnings: language_)

The next day, Alistair and Morrigan were constantly getting into verbal battles over... just about anything and everything. Leliana followed quietly, wondering how long the two had known each other. They seemed quite embroiled. And that elf that was with them, almost every time they started bickering, the elf would just simply vanish. As the verbal fencing wound down, Alistair would look around in bewilderment and wonder where Bannon had gone.

By the time the elf appeared again, the two were having another spat. Bannon rolled his eyes. "Are they still at it?" he asked Leliana.

"Not still," she clarified. "Merely 'again.'"

"Do you guys need to go back to the room?" Bannon asked loudly. "Spend some time alone together?"

"What?" yelped Alistair. "Eeuw!"

"Certainly not," said Morrigan with a shudder.

Leliana frowned in puzzlement. "You're not lovers?"

"NO!" both of them yelled at once.

Morrigan said, "I'd just as soon kiss a toad."

"You've probaby done that a lot," Alistair shot back. "Along with eating bugs and worms. Real catch for any prince you discover."

"Is that all you know of the world?" Morrigan purred with sickly sweetness. "Stories your mummie told you as a child?"

"Don't you talk about my mother, you witch!"

Leliana turned to Bannon to comment... but the elf had vanished again.

-#-

It was amazing what people left lying around, guarded only by a cheap lock. Or simply tucked into an out-of-the-way corner or nook. You'd think people as desperate as the refugees in Lothering would keep a closer eye on their possessions. Then Bannon realized that the people here now were mostly squatters. They didn't own any of the homes or shops, places with locks on the doors, so they had to make do.

There wasn't any money, of course. So he ended up with a bulging sack of junk he thought maybe he could sell or trade. He found another sack (no decent carrying packs yet) and divided out what he wanted to trade away. The other sack, he dropped off on Alistair when he was checking up on their little group. Alistair and the witch were still going on about Templars and apostates, paying the elf hardly any mind. Which suited his purposes just fine. Industriously, he slipped away again.

"Where is it you are running off to, now?"

Bannon turned. The Chantry Sister, Leliana, was following him. She must've found the lovers' quarrels less amusing after finding out they were just the squabbles of children. "I'm looking for that merchant," he said.

"He has his wagons set up near the Chantry."

"Oh." Bannon did an about-face and headed in that direction. Leliana fell into step beside him. "So did you learn to fight like that in the Chantry?" he asked her.

"Oh no; of course not. I wasn't always a cloistered sister, you know." She brushed strands of red hair from her face. "Back in Orlais, I was a, well, a minstrel, really." She smiled. "Songs and stories were my life. I was an artist, creating beautiful music, word-smithing..." Her words trailed off with fond memories. Her attention returned a few moments later, her words hardened, became less fanciful. "But, when a young woman travels alone, she must learn to protect herself, yes? Yes, of course!"

Bannon nodded. "Do you always fight in a robe?" She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I mean, do you have any armor?"

"Oh, no, I do not. As for fighting, I prefer to resolve conflict through reason, negotation, and compromise."

"Well, that's not going to work on darkspawn, trust me." Bannon grinned wryly, trying to picture the delicate little woman reasoning with a hurlock. "Do you have any money? We should see about getting you something a bit more sturdy."

"I have some coin, yes. Though lately people have been more concerned with paying for food, and have nothing left to give for song."

The merchant - Stafford was his name, Bannon recalled - had three wagons drawn up near the Chantry wall. They were guarded by a trio of vicious mongrels. Not mabari hounds, but big enough and with long, toothy jaws. As soon as Bannon came near, they were barking and giving him the evil eye.

"Quiet, Slasher!" Stafford was a burly human, strong of arm, but going a bit paunchy in the stomach. He had a sharp face and small eyes; his black hair and close-cut beard held a faint oily sheen. "What do you want, knife-ears? Keep your grubby hands away from my goods." His eyes shifted to Leliana. "Now what? More fanatics?"

He knew Leliana? "I'm with the Grey Wardens," Bannon told the man. "We need some supplies. I've come to trade." He hefted his sack meaningfully.

Stafford's eyes widened a moment, with a flash of wariness that he quickly covered up. Good, he must've heard about the Wardens killing Loghain's soldiers last night. That should make him easier to deal with. Then the merchant got a canny look on his face that Bannon didn't like. "Grey Warden, of course. You seem quite capable - run off this rabble, and we can talk business."

The 'rabble' consisted of a couple of farmers and a pinch-faced woman in Chantry robes. Ah, the other fanatic.

"We are not rabble," the Sister snapped. "You are profiting from people's misfortune!"

"I'm a businessman," he growled back. "I have limited goods. The people decide what price they will pay."

"You bought almost all your supplies from these very same people just last week! And now that they are in desperate straits, you sell it back to them at four times the cost!"

Leliana nodded. "All along the roads to Lothering, profiteers have been preying on the refugees."

"Lower your prices," the Chantry Sister said, "or be driven out of this town!"

"If I leave, there won't be _any_ supplies!"

"I should have the Templars seize all your wares and give them away!"

"You can't do that!"

"Hold it, hold it!" Bannon cut in. The combatants quit glaring daggers at each other. He gave them a second to calm down, then spoke reasonably. "Look," he said to the Sister, "if he lowered his prices, people with money would just buy up everything they could and turn around and sell it for even more. It won't help anything."

Leliana frowned at him. "You cannot be taking his side."

"It's not 'sides,' it's the truth," Bannon insisted.

"And if the Templars were to distribute the goods evenly?" the red-headed Sister asked. "Make sure that everyone is given what he or she needs?" The Chantry women moved closer together, forming a united front.

"They can't," Bannon said to quickly defuse the situation. "There aren't enough supplies. Some will have to go without."

"And the only criteria for who deserves these supplies is money?" Leliana wrinkled her nose in distaste.

Bannon looked at the other Chantry Sister. "You can't use your authority with the Templars to rob somebody." The woman dropped her gaze. "If the Chantry has money, and you want to buy him out and give it away, you're welcome to." He had her when he'd pointed out her threat to commit a felony. He tossed her a bone with the rest. The Chantry was as tight with its money as anyone else.

Stafford told the protesters to push off. Clearly, he was a genius at winning loyal customers. The Sister and the farmers slunk off, while Leliana just stood by and fumed. "Now," the merchant said with a wide wolfen smile; "shall we see about your discount?"

"What, you'll only charge me three times as much, instead of four?"

Stafford laughed, but he didn't deny it, either.

They spent a great deal of time haggling. Bannon managed to secure sturdy packs, some camping gear, travelling supplies. Not too much in the way of food, that still cost too dearly. The Wardens would have to supplement that with hunting, though Bannon shied away from relying on that particular skill. Morrigan might hunt for them, now that they were in charge. Though she probably wasn't joking about regurgitated meat.

Bannon also asked after a set of armor for Leliana, but Stafford said he didn't have anything suitable, unless she was built like one of Loghain's soldiers or was an eight foot giant. They'd have to make do scrounging for it elsewhere. With their luck, a woman mercenary or thief would attack them, and it would be settled.

They went back over the bridge to meet up with the others. Leliana said nothing. Judging by that little line between her brows, she was still miffed at him.

They found Alistair and Morrigan in the yard before the inn. Leliana marched right up to Alistair and started in on him. "Do you have any idea what this elf of yours has been up to while he is out of your sight?" Alistair's brows went up; he took a step back and put up his hands defensively. The Chantry Sister turned on Bannon. "Tell him what you've done."

"What did you do?" Alistair asked hesitantly.

"I got us a good deal on some supplies," Bannon replied with a grin. "Not much in the way of food, but we still have a fair amount of coin. Once we get away from Lothering, we should be in good shape when we get to Redcliffe."

"Oh," said Alistair. "That's good."

Leliana's eyes flared at Bannon. "You convinced Sister Amica to let that venal merchant bleed the poor people of Lothering dry!"

"I told you, if it wasn't him, it'd be someone else."

"'Tis only survival of the fittest," Morrigan inserted. No one bothered to remark on her attitude this time.

"The Chantry would have distributed the goods fairly to those most in need!" Leliana insisted.

Bannon rubbed his brow. _Come on, shem-kisser, smooth talk her around to your side._ But you know what? He didn't feel like it. "Did you miss the entire conversation?" he said harsly. "There's no way to distribute it fairly. Some of these people are going to die and trust me, starving to death is the least of their worries."

"What do you mean?"

Alistair said gently, "Lothering is in the path of the darkspawn horde. In a few days, this place will be overrun."

Her sea-storm eyes widened. "But... the army..."

"They're pulling out," Bannon said, and Alistair nodded. "We came through an encampment up the road. They got the orders to move out yesterday."

Leliana's mouth dropped slack. Certainly, the approach of the Blight was not news to her. Perhaps no one expected it so soon. "But... you are Grey Wardens. Can you do nothing?"

"Like what?" asked Bannon. "Stand on a hill and wave; tell the darkspawn the army went that-a-way?" He softened a bit. "There's only two of us. Our Order was betrayed. The army's gone home to roost in Denerim. I'm sorry, but we can't save everyone by ourselves. We need to gather our allies, our own army, or the whole nation will be lost."

Leliana dropped her head. "Like in my dream."

"Yeah." Bannon looked at Alistair. The human looked shadowed by the reminders of death and betrayal. Bannon handed him a large pack. "So, what have you been up to?" he asked on a bit of a brighter note.

Morrigan answered curtly, "We have been solving everyone's petty little problems, and grubbing around for weeds."

"We met the village elder," Alistair explained. "Morrigan helped brew some healing potions to restock their supplies."

"What 'helped'? I did all the work."

"Well, who was the one actually grubbing around and digging in the dirt for roots?" Alistair shot back.

"'Twas the only task you were qualified for."

Did these two never stop? Bannon bit back a grimace. The Wardens could have used some of those healing potions. Why had Alistair given them away? "Did you get paid?"

"Yes," Alistair assured him. "Also, there's reports of a large bandit gang lurking in the countryside just west of the cornfields. The Chantry is offering a reward for taking care of them."

"In gold?" Bannon stroked his chin. He wondered if there was a similar bounty on the toll-road bandits.

"Yes," said Alistair.

The elf tapped a finger against his lips a moment. "All right, here's what we'll do. We'll go clear out the bandits - we have to go that way anyway; we don't want them harassing us. Then we'll get some lunch at the tavern and head out." He looked at each in turn, and handed Morrigan the pack she was intended to carry. Give her less of an opportunity to complain. "Does that sound good? We really need to get out of here as soon as possible."

No one had any objections. Alistair suggested leaving their packs in their rooms. Bannon was concerned about theft, but Morrigan assured them she knew a spell perfect for keeping intruders out of one's room. At least half of the spell seemed to be glaring at the innkeeper and loudly warning him not to send any servants up there that he didn't want incinerated.

Then they prepared to go bandit hunting. Bannon was glad to see Sister Leliana had a crossbow as well as a sword. That should keep her out of range of the thick fighting. It wouldn't do for her to get her Chantry robes blood-spattered again.

As they passed the town's farm gate, the hubub of the crowded town died down. From somewhere up ahead came a low chanting. The lane was flanked by a sturdy post and rail fence, and at the end of this stood a large iron cage. Inside the cage was a giant.

He stood eight or nine feet tall, thick horns on either side of his head brushing the top of the cage. He was broad and muscular with a thick greyish skin. A shirt stretched across his back and hung two-thirds of the way down his torso, unbuttoned. The arms had been ripped out in order to fit him even that much. It had probably been donated by a rotund farmer at the Chantry's behest in their quest for a modicum of decency. He wore nothing else but a breechclout and a kilt made of a small blanket.

Bannon had never seen a qunari up close before. Sometimes, qunari mercenaries passed through the streets of Denerim, but seeing one up close usually meant you were about to die. He slowed his footsteps and stared at the creature.

The qunari's deep, reverberating voice did not falter in its chant. He finished, then opened his grey eyes and glared out at the group. "I will not entertain you," he growled. "You may leave."

"How civilized," Morrigan said. "A strong and noble creature caged and reduced to an amusement for the masses." She nearly spit out her words with distaste.

Leliana said, "He slaughtered an entire family. The Templars captured him, and the Reverend Mother decreed this to be his punishment."

"To wait here to be eaten by darkspawn?" Alistair made a face.

Bannon went up to the cage. "What are you in for?"

"Did you not hear? Because I murdered a family of farmers."

"Are you guilty?"

"Do you mean to ask if I feel guilt? Or if I have done what they accuse me of?"

Bannon narrowed his eyes. He couldn't get a read on this guy; his voice was flat, as if he didn't care about anything. "Did you really do it?" he asked the giant.

"Yes."

"Why?"

The qunari narrowed its eyes, as if surprised by this question. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Bannon said slowly, thinking of a murdered nobleman's son. "Sometimes it makes all the difference in the world."

For a minute, those large grey eyes studied Bannon. The elf waited, looking back boldly. The giant sighed. "I lost my temper and killed them," he said, without any inflection. "They... were only trying to help me. I am guilty. Does that satisfy you?"

"So you want to be left here for the darkspawn to eat?" Bannon leaned back from the cage. He was going to get a crick in his neck looking up at this guy. "That's what they do, you know."

"Yes."

"Do you really think that's a good way to atone for killing that family?"

"I will be dead. That will suffice."

"But you'll just make some darkspawn fat and happy. And then they'll go on their merry way slaughtering innocent people." Bannon tipped his head cannily. "Wouldn't it be better if you were out of that cage, with a weapon in your hand, fighting the darkspawn? You'll still be outnumbered and die, sure, but that way you'll stop some of them, slow them down, maybe save a few lives."

"Ye-es," the qunari admited slowly. "That is true. But I do not think my captors will allow me that."

Bannon shrugged. "Well, I'll go talk to them." He glanced at Leliana. "The Reverend Mother, right?"

"Uh, yes."

"I'll go talk to her, then."

And so the bandits would have to wait until they had a little audience with the Reverend Mother.

Alistair caught up with Bannon as they passed the tavern yet again. "You know, Bannon... I'm not so sure it's such a good idea to release an unrepentant murderer."

"He's not unrepentant. That's why he let a bunch of farmers lock him up. Did you see the size of that guy?" Even Templars couldn't get a qunari out of his clothes and armor without several of them being crushed.

"Yes, that's what frightens me," said Alistair.

"Look, he's eager to make up for his crime by killing darkspawn. We're going to run into a lot of darkspawn - right?" Bannon grinned. "He won't be trying to kill us. We'll keep him busy."

"He didn't say he'd come with us."

"Oh... I think he will."

-#-

The Chantry courtyard was crowded with families - or broken remnants of families. The Wardens picked their way through tight knots of misery and numb despair. Alistair felt his heart ache at the sight, and his guilt gnawed at him.

"Why are these people standing about?" Morrigan asked. "Don't they realize this place is going to fall to the Blight?" The damned witch didn't even bother to keep her voice down.

Alistair turned on her and growled, "They're trying to find their families. They don't want to leave their loved-ones behind." To fall to the darkspawn, under their blades, and teeth.

"'Twould be smarter to wait somewhere safer, would it not?" Morrigan wrinkled her nose at the unwashed urchins. Silver tracks of tears ran down their grubby little faces.

"If you lost your mother, wouldn't you try to make sure she was all right?"

"My mother is quite capable of taking care of herself."

Alistair had figured that for a losing battle before he'd even started. He couldn't help trying to crack the witch's cold demeanor. She must care about something. Didn't she seem a tiny bit upset at the thought of her mother's cottage being overrun? And what about her sympathy for the caged giant? Or was that just her being contrary again; siding with a murderer? Whatever it was, he decided this time not to get caught up in a useless argument.

"We're all going to die!" a ragged voice cried. The milling crowd parted, drawing back from a dusky-skinned man; a Chasind, no doubt. "They'll slaughter us all! Butcher us like cattle!" Grand. Someone Morrigan could agree with, clearly raving.

"Please, stop." An older woman in Chantry robes strode towards the man. "You're frightening the children." One or two began crying, affecting the rest. The littlest began to wail, too young to understand all this pain and misery around him.

"Better to slit their throats," the barbarian screeched, turning his wild gaze on the woman. "'Twould be a mercy!"

Alistair had enough of these damned Chasind and witches and their cruel attitudes. He began to march over there, not realizing there was a restraining hand on his arm until Bannon gripped him harder. Frowning, Alistair looked down at the elf. Bannon shook his head and tugged the human's arm again. Alistair set his jaw and shrugged the elf's hand off.

His movements must have drawn the Chasind's notice. "They're here!" The man's sunken eyes widened, showing stark white against his face. He raised a shaking hand, pointing right at Alistair. "The monsters are here among us! They'll strip the flesh from our bones!" Spittle flew from the mandman's lips as he contined to rail, crying doom and slaughter. No... not mad. And those dark circles under his eyes were not from lack of sleep. He carried the Taint.

Bannon moved halfway in front of Alistair. "Let the Templars handle it."

The Templars, and you're not one. Alistair ground his teeth.

The Chantry Sister, sparing a scathing glance in Bannon's direction, summoned to Templars to escore the barbarian back to the refugee camp. Alistair tensed for a fight, but the man didn't draw his war axe. He struggled in the Templar's grip and continued ranting.

"He's Tainted," Alistair said, keeping his voice low. He didn't want to panic the group, but they couldn't let that man stay in contact with them.

"I know," Bannon said. "But we can't up and slaughter every bad-tempered nay-sayer we meet." Hang on, did his eyes just flick towards Morrigan? Only, at that moment, the elf blinked, and when his eyes opened, they were looking at Alistair again. "Trust me, we'll handle it. Be patient."

Right, if they went about stabbing people here before the Chantry, in front of all these children, they'd never get an audience with the Reverend Mother. Alistair followed quietly to the Chantry door. The guards apparently knew Leliana, and on her word, the Wardens' group was allowed in.

This small town Chantry was not a grand cathedral like those found in the cities, but it was easily the largest building in Lothering. The wide entry hall was lined with small dispensaries separated from the hall by low counters. These were where people came to deal with the Chanters. The hungry could entreat for food or alms, the sick could be tended. Anyone could buy a notice on the Chantry board, requesting aid. If the cause were worthy, the Chantry would supplement the rewards offered. The dispensaries were hauntingly empty, the Chantry having run out of food and medicine. The floorspace of the hall was lined with neatly rolled blankets. At night, the broken families and orphans would have a space to sleep.

A young country woman sat on a blanket, rolling a ball for her child. Alistair smiled as the little tyke toddled after it, nearly falling over the toy that was almost as big as he was. Then the Templar felt his heart sink as he imagined them both dead, torn apart by darkspawn teeth. With a shudder, he turned away. Maker, if they could just save some of these people!

The Reverend Mother was a middle-aged woman, her dark hair streaked with silver and coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. Two Templars stood guard outside her door, but they let the quartet pass without comment. Apparently, Sister Leliana was a legitimate Sister. Or at least the people of this Chantry thought so. Alistair didn't think Leliana had taken her vows here; he got the impression she had travelled from somewhere else.

The Reverend Mother asked if they'd brought a tithe to the church. Alistair stepped forward and dumped half the coins from hs purse into his hand. It wasn't a lavish sum, but it was the best he could do. The Reverend Mother thanked him and asked what she could do for them.

"We're Grey Wardens," Bannon started.

The Reverend Mother grimaced and held up a hand. "That is not a wise thing to say so openly, young man. Not here and now, when the soldiers have been naming you traitors and placing a bounty on your heads."

"They're lying," Alistair said. "Loghain is trying to blame his treachery on us."

"Please, Your Reverence," Leliana added; "I believe these Wardens to be truthful; men who can be trusted."

Again the Reverend Mother held up a hand. "The Maker knows the truth, and there will be an accounting. But you would do well to tread softly."

Bannon said, "You need to know that we are Grey Wardens, so you will heed us. There is a man outside, a Chasind barbarian, crying doom - do you know of him?" When the Reverend Mother nodded, he continued. "He is not just mad; he's Tainted."

"Grey Wardens can sense the Taint," Alistair added.

"You must send the Templars to take him away and execute him. If you don't," the elf said, giving the church leader a dire look, "he could infect others."

She bit her lip. "I will see it is done."

"Burn the body, if you can," Alistair said.

Bannon asked about the qunari prisoner. "He is a foreigner in our land," the Reverend Mother said sadly. "But he does not deny having slain those poor gentlefolk. He does not seem... evil, or murderous, but he cannot explain why he performed such a cruel act. He seems contrite and willing to accept his punishment. I would not order his execution out of hand. So I have left it to the Maker's will." She sighed softly. "And yet, he has made no attempt to escape his fate."

"If you release him into our custody, he has agreed to make reparations fighting the darkspawn," said Bannon. "Surely it would be better for him to slay as many as he can, instead of feeding a few?" He smiled slightly at the gallows humor.

The Reverend Mother bowed her head. She took a leather cord from her neck, one that bore a great iron key. She handed it to the elf. "Take him, with my blessing."

"Thank you."

"Is there anything else?"

Alistair stepped up. "Reverend Mother, with all due respect, you have to get everyone out of Lothering as soon as possible. As in... now."

"There are still the sick and infirm. And the lost. We haven't finished packing supplies..."

"You don't understand," Alistair said desperately. "The army is abandoning Lothering. The horde will overrun this town in just a few days!" He wrung his hands in desperation. "Even limping and crawling is better than staying here."

The woman paled. "The army is abandoning us?"

Bannon said, "I heard the orders given, myself."

"Maker preserve us." She put her face in her hands.

Alistair's stomach knotted. "Is there anything we can do?" he asked hopelessly.

"I don't know," the Reverend Mother said hollowly. "Is there anything you can do?"

Alistair didn't know. Short of building twenty carts and the oxen to pull them in less than an hour? Or summoning a flock of the legendary white griffons to carry people to safety? He clenched his jaw. _You have to hold it together,_ he told himself. _It's going to be Ostagar all over again._ Only it was worse this time, because he knew how it would end.

Bannon said, "We killed the bandits on the east road; it's safe now to send small parties through there. There's a break in the road, so don't load up any ox-carts too heavily until they get past that point. The army checkpoint beyond that..." The elf shrugged. "They should be gone by now, too. Just head up the road to the next town." Maker bless the elf for being practical at a time like this!

Galvanized, the Reverend Mother stood up. "We will do what we can, and trust in the Maker's mercy. I must begin with the preparations, give the Templars their orders." She looked at the group. "Is there anything else?"

Bannon shook his head and looked at Alistair. Alistair said, "May we have your blessing, Mother?"

"Of course."

Alistair shot a glance over his shoulder. Morrigan rolled her eyes, but thankfully remained silent as she turned and left. Bannon knelt and bowed his head. Beside him, Leliana did the same, but turned her face heavenward. Alistair dropped to one knee, hand over his heart. He closed his eyes as the Reverend Mother intoned the blessings of the Maker and Saint Andraste. _Maker forgive me,_ Alistair prayed silently; _for all my failures._ He knew that kneeling down had brought his face into a patch of light from the windows, but he couldn't help but feel it was the warmth of the Maker's touch. _Give me strength,_ he added.

As they left the Reverend Mother's office, he felt better. They hadn't actually done anything, really, but they'd set wheels in motion. There was hope.

Alistair caught sight of Morrigan talking with two Templars. That couldn't be good. Bannon saw them too, and the elf headed over to avert disaster. Better him than Alistair. Alistair would wait patiently outside and try not to break down in tears if the Templars decided to haul Morrigan away as an apostate. Tears of joy, maybe.

Then Alistair spotted the insignia of Redcliffe upon a shield. That man, with the thick brown hair and beard; wasn't that... what's his name? He was one of Teagan's friends. "Ser Bryant?" Alistair called. The man turned.

A puzzled look crossed Ser Bryant's face as his eyes scanned over Alistair, trying to place him. Then his eyes widened. "Alistair?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes, Ser Bryant. It's me!"

The knight clasped Alistair's arm. "Maker's Mercy, when we heard about Ostagar..." He shook his head. "We heard all the Grey Wardens had perished."

"They have," Alistair said darkly. "My friend and I are the only ones left." He turned and called, "Hey, Bannon! Come over here." The elf was still talking with the Templars. He held up a hand to tell Alistair to wait. Leliana started to head over. Alistair turned back to Ser Bryant, unable to contain his burning curiosity. "What news of Redcliffe? We're heading there; we need to speak to Arl Eamon. He wasn't at Ostagar." Alistair was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. He was equal parts giddy with excitement and churning with dread. "His troops didn't arrive. Are they still at Redcliffe? Have they heard about Loghain's treachery? Or the stories Loghain's goons are telling?"

The knight held up both hands. "Whoa, whoa; slow down, Alistair."

Alistair couldn't help it. He explained yet again that the Grey Wardens were _not_ the traitors. Maker, if Arl Eamon thought that- if he believed Loghain's story... "He has to know the truth," Alistair insisted.

Leliana was at his side now, listening with her quiet intensity. Bannon and Morrigan came over as well.

"I haven't been to Redcliffe since a week after the armies were mustered," Ser Bryant said. "Arl Eamon took ill, deathly ill. No tonics, nor potions, nor even magic could heal him." Alistair couldn't believe his ears. Eamon, sick? Eamon was always strong and healthy as an ox! His mouth gaped, but he said nothing, letting the knight continue. "In desperation, the arlessa sent us on a quest to recover the Urn of Sacred Ashes."

"Huh," Bannon commented. "The fabled Ashes of Andraste? Fabled as in, not really existing?"

The Sacred Ashes were the remains of Blessed Andraste, the Maker's mortal bride. Ages ago, Andraste led an Exalted March against the Tevinter Imperium. She freed the nations of Thedas from slavery, and founded the Chantry to bring the Maker's light back into the world. Yet on the eve of victory, Blessed Andraste was betrayed and burned at the stake by the Tevinter Magisters. Her ashes were said to have been recovered by her loyal disciples and secured in a hidden temple. But that was all centuries ago, in ages past. If the Urn of Sacred Ashes really existed, wouldn't it have been found by now?

Ser Bryant scowled at Bannon. "I've been tracking down a scholar in Denerim who has been studying the legends and artifacts. He may have uncovereed concrete information on where the Ashes might be."

"We're heading to Redcliffe," Alistair said. Or so he hoped - if Arl Eamon were unable to help them... He turned to Bannon. "I still think going there is our best course of action. We can assess the situation ourselves. Ser Bryant, have you any news on the arl's current condition? Has it changed?"

Again, the knight had to almost literally use both hands to stem the tide of questions. "No, I haven't heard anything. I still haven't tracked down this Brother Genetivi. And if you're going to Redcliffe, no, I can't accompnay you. I have to turn north to Lake Town. But you can take my report to Arlessa Isolde."

Oh. The arlessa. She'd certainly be pleased to see Alistair. Not. But pleasantries didn't matter - this was a matter of life and death. Hundreds of lives and deaths!

Alistair looked at Bannon. The elf agreed they should continue to Redcliffe. Alistair gratefully took Ser Bryant's written report, and placed it in his scrip with the Treaties. He blew out a breath. This was turning into a busy day!


	16. Lothering, Day part 2

Lothering: Day (part 2)

* * *

><p><strong>CONTENT:<strong>

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Action/Adventure

Language: mild cursing

Violence: some (fighting, killing)

Nudity: none (Sten is in his skivvies for a minute, though)

Sex: none

Other: dogs are killed

_Author's Notes:_

I took liberties with Sten's armor (to go with the liberties I took with his appearance), because I don't see him wedging himself into, say, dwarven plate mail.

I'm not happy with the Lothering parts of the story, and I apologize for the boring bits. I don't have any ideas how to make them better, though.

Highlight: Sten calls it like he sees it. :X

* * *

><p>Bannon followed the Alistair back outside. A stick. That's what he needed, a really big stick! The idiot had spent all morning making a few coin, and then he turned around and gave most of it back! What part of 'Wardens in desperate straits' didn't he understand?<p>

Then Bannon had to rescue Morrigan from the Templars. Templars she was tempting to look at her in that way that made her burn people's heads off. Honestly! She asked for it! At least she'd picked the head Templar. The one in charge of handing out bounties on bandits. He seemed genuinely grateful that Bannon had taken care of that little toll problem outside of town. The gold coins were a nice touch, too.

They exited the gate of the Chantry courtyard. "You guys go on ahead," Bannon told them. "I'll get the qunari's gear."

"You know where his clothes are?" Alistair asked.

"Oh, I have a pretty good idea."

The elf approached the merchant's wagons, setting off the damned dogs again. The oily merchant climbed out of his wagon, a fat sandwich in one hand. He screamed at the dogs to shut up.

"Stafford," Bannon said, "give me that qunari armor."

The man choked. "What? Give? Did you say give? I think you meant 'sell,' friend."

"You said it was too big to sell," Bannon countered. "Have you cut it up for scraps yet?"

"No."

"I found the guy it belongs to. I said I'd bring it to him. So... if you don't mind?"

"Hah!" Stafford nearly sprayed half his sandwich out of his mouth. "Not til I see the colour of your gold!"

Bannon shrugged. "All right then, I'll just tell him you have it. He seemed anxious to get it back, so I'll send him ov-"

"Wait, what? That great ox-head? He-he-he's loose?"

Bannon nodded. "Yes, but I'm sure he'll be reasonable this time. If you just explain it to him calmly, he won't get angry like he did at that farmhouse..."

"No no no no!" Stafford threw his lunch to the dogs and nearly fell over himself getting the qunari armor out of his crates.

"Where's his weapon?" Bannon asked judiciously.

"He didn't have one. I swear!" The merchant didn't seem to have any qunari-sized weapons either. The biggest was a sword, and Bannon doubted this giant could do more than pick his teeth with it. Perhaps the bandits would have something useful. Count on those bandits.

Bannon wrestled the bulky leather, straps, buckles, and metal plates into his arms and turned to follow his companions. Why didn't he let Alistair come with him to carry this stuff? Oh, right; stupid shem would probably have paid for it.

"Oh, Warden!" Stafford called out after him. Bannon turned. "If you're going out to the western fields, make sure you stick to the path behind the windmill. Crazy farmer's got traps laid out all along the other."

"Thanks," Bannon said, heaving his burden up higher in his arms and turning towards the bridge.

"No," Stafford said quietly to himself, grin spreading across his face. "Thank _you._"

-==#==-

"I am surprised you have returneed," the giant said. He could have fooled Bannon, since the tone of his voice was exactly the same, his expression still stone. Oh wait, was that one eyebrow raised a fraction?

"The Reverend Mother has released you into our custody," the elf explained as he unlocked the cage. Alistair handed the pile of qunari armor to the giant. He took it and draped it over the nearby fence, then dropped the blanket and ripped off the too-small shirt so he could start strapping the armor on. Alistair squeaked and turned around hurriedly. So did Leliana, red-faced. Bannon didn't care, and the witch seemed particularly curious. The giant ignored them one and all.

The elf made introductions. "My name is Bannon. And that's Alistair. We're Grey Wardens. These are our companions, Morrigan and Leliana."

"Grey Wardens," the giant mused. "We have heard of these legendary warriors in Par Vollen." He frowned down his nose at the small elf. "Clearly these legends are exaggerated."

Bannon thrust his jaw forward, but said nothing. Did tall people really think they could command respect from those who could see up their noses?

"Is he decent yet?" Alistair griped. "I'd prefer to be insulted by someone fully clothed." The Templar took a peek over his shoulder. "Oh," he said, turning back around. "That's better."

The qunari slapped a fist against his chest plates, checking the snugness of the harness. Two broad plates covered his pectorals, overlaying a network of leather straps. Smaller plates, backed by flexible leather strips, covered the abdominal area. The back was similarly constructed, with interlocking spinal plates. The upper arm guards were huge, flaring up to protect the neck. More leather-backed plates guarded the forearms and legs. Studded leather straps hung from a wide belt to form a kilt. Sten didn't seem to have a helmet. Bannon doubted anyone could reach the giant's head, anyway.

"And what shall we call you?" Bannon prompted him.

"Is there a need?"

"If we are going to be travelling together," Bannon started.

"What travelling? I understood I was to meet the darkspawn here."

"As I said, we're Grey Wardens. We fight darkspawn wherever we go. The Reverend Mother remanded you into our custody, remember? That means you go with us. And right now," Bannon said, "we're hunting bandits in these hills."

The giant rumbled.

"Is that a problem?" Bannon demanded. His companions tensed and got ready to draw their weapons.

"If the Reverend Mother decreed it," the qunari admitted sourly; "then it shall be done." The Wardens relaxed a notch. "I am Sten," the giant said.

"Do you follow the Chantry's religion?" Morrigan asked. "You seem to set great stock by what this Reverend Mother says."

"He is the leader, is he not? And in charge of my sentence."

"Um," Alistair said slowly, "_she_ is, yes."

"'She'? That makes no sense," said Sten. "Do you allow your women to roam freely and make decisions?"

Leliana indignantly crossed her arms over her quite female chest. Bannon and Alistair looked as if ready to tip-toe away. Morrigan handled the inquiry. "You're talking to a woman now," she pointed out. "As for 'allowing' us to roam and think for ourselves, that would imply we gave them any say in the matter."

"You are not a woman," Sten said. "You do not look like a female."

Morrigan's mouth dropped open in surprise. "You can't tell?" She and Leliana exchanged glances. "What do I look like, then?"

Sten moved over to her and bent slightly to peer down at her chest. Was he nearsighted? He'd have to be, in order to miss Morrigans 'femaleness.' "Your attire indicates you are one of the soft painted ones who are always offering entertainment in the streets of your cities," the qunari asserted.

There was dead silence.

A storm began brewing in Morrigan's face. Too late to tip-toe away now, they should have run like hell. Bannon rashly jumped in between the witch and the giant. "Ri-i-i-ight," he said with forced cheerfulness. "Little cultural misunderstanding, there. Heh-heh?"

"Clearly," Morrigan said; "he has _no_ experience with women." She stalked off a few paces.

"All right," said Bannon. "It's getting past lunch time, and we're not eating until we've taken care of these bandits."

"Which of you is in charge of this expedition?" Sten asked.

"I am," said Bannon. He caught a flash of red as Leliana's head whipped around in surprise. Yeah, didn't expect that, did you, Sister?

Sten said, "Very well. I shall follow."

"Sorry we couldn't find a weapon for you," Bannon said. "The man who had your armor said you didn't have any."

"I do not." The giant turned to the fence rail he'd hung his gear on. He grabbed it and yanked it out of the slots in the posts. Holding it by the narrow, whittled end, he slung the five-foot length easily up to rest against his shoulder. "This will do."

Right. "Very good then," said Bannon. "The bandits might have somethign better for you." He turned to follow Morrigan. "Hey, not that way," he called to her. "There's traps up there; we'll have to go the long way around the windmill."

Huffing in irritation, the witch changed direction. The others hurried to catch up.

"This is great," Alistair griped to Bannon in a low voice. "We free a murderer, the first thing he does is start vandalizing the town."

"You can't possibly complain."

"Me? No! Complain? No-o-o-o. He's the most normal one of the bunch!"

-==#==-

The bandits were no match for them, despite the fact the Wardens' group were not a cohesive fighting unit. Morrigan threatened to freeze both Alistair and the qunari if they continued rushing their foes. Bannon utilized his bow, back with Lelaina and her crossbow, then switched to blades as the bandits rushed them. The bandits were not trained warriors, only desperate villagers and farmers. Nothing like facing darkspawn. Bannon was grateful his rag-tag group got in some practice with less lethal enemies.

At last, they worked out a strategy where Alistair and Sten would swing out wide, scattering to avoid archery fire, then wait until Morrigan had softened up the targets before charging to meet them halfway.

One of the bandits must've been a former blacksmith. He had a huge maul. Bannon suggested to Sten that he might like that better than his cracked fence rail. The dour giant didn't seem happy about it, but as he never seemed happy about anything so far... And Leliana was not happy with the piecemeal armor the thieves made do with. Bannon pointed out that not only were darkspawn _not_ fashion-conscious, but also that her armor would match a lot more once it was all blood-spattered.

The bandits had amassed a vast pile of junk. Anything of value went into Bannon's belt pouches. Anything useful, such as arrows or healing poultices, went into another sack. The rest got thrown into an old chest at the bandits' base camp. Banon frowned at all the weapons and armor they had to leave behind; items worth a good bit of coin during a war, but there was just too much to carry. He gave the awkwardly bulging sack to Alistair.

Sten managed to rig his weapon harness to hold the great maul. Then he hefted the chest and balanced it on one broad pauldron. Bannon's eyes flew wide, and then he grinned. He _knew_ this guy would come in handy!

The sun had passed the high noon mark and was descending towards a patch of fluffy clouds. The hungry companions circled the windmill. Bannon and Alistair discussed how long it would take to get to Redcliffe and how many small towns they'd find along the Highway. The human estimated another two weeks. There weren't any big towns between here and there, but there were several farming hamlets. Once the road swung northwest, they'd be out of the path of the horde.

"All right," Bannon said; "once we sell these heavy items for some portable coin, we should be set."

From just over his shoulder, Leliana said, "You can't be thinking of giving these things to that man Stafford?"

Bannon half-turned and dropped back a few steps to argue with her. "He's the only one with money."

"He'll only turn around and sell it even more dearly to people who can scarce afford it. We should donate our surplus to the Chantry." Her lyrical voice turned soft and reasonable. "They will see it is given out to everyone in need. Don't you agree, Alistair?"

The Templar startled slightly at being called into the discussion. "Um...," he hedged, torn between the right answer as the Chantry had taught him and basic practicality. "Well, they are going to pay us for clearing out the bandits," he offered.

Leliana shot Bannon a superior, righteous glare. Bannon said, "Look, if you want to buy armor in matching colours, and eat along the way, we'll n-"

The elf and the bard nearly collided with the sheild across Alistair's back as the Templar stopped dead. Now what? Bannon moved around the big lummox so he could see.

There were a couple of farmers and townsfolk standing across the path. Three, no four - no, wait, five, six... "Can we help you?" Alistair said.

Bannon looked around quickly. More people filtered onto the narrow path behind them, and the elf saw some shadows moving in an abandoned farmhouse across the way. The men and the few women didn't have any armor, only simple homespun clothing. They carried only farm tools, hoes and shovels, even one scythe, but they had the Wardens' party neatly trapped. Better than the bandits had managed.

The man to whom Alistair had spoken said, "They say you're Grey Wardens. I don't know if you done those things to poor King Cailen, and Maker help me, I don't care. There's a price on your heads that would feed a lot of hungry mouths."

Alistair said, "You could feed them better if you weren't dragging us along to Denerim with you, friend."

"Ah, Alistair," Bannon said aside to him; "When he says the 'price on our heads,' I think he means that's the only part they're taking."

"Oh." The Templar frowned. "I suppose that would work." He lowered the sack he was carrying and let it fall to the ground.

Leliana stepped up beside him. "Please," she begged the farmer, her eyes soulful. "You are not warriors. We do not wish to hurt you."

Bannon drew himself up and raised his voice so they could all hear. "Throw down your weapons, and you can walk away." He shot a look over his shoulder at Morrigan. 'Ice,' he mouthed to her, hoping she got the message. Meanwhile, the villagers growled amongst themselves, trying to work up the nerve to attack. "This offer is good at any time," Bannon yelled out, drawing his weapons.

Sten bent and lowered the chest to the ground with a heavy thump.

"They can't stop us all!" the leader yelled. "_Take them!_" The villagers rushed forward.

Bannon moved aside to give Morrigan a clearer field of view. She sprayed an arc of freezing water and stopped the whole front line. The others behind them milled back hesitantly.

The group at the Wardens' rear was not so lucky. Three met Sten's hammerhead as the giant swung at them. They crashed backwards, thrown to the ground. Alistair turned and stood by the qunari. "Stop attacking us!" the Templar pleaded. He fended off a rake with his shield, but didn't counterattack.

Leliana continued her pleas for reason. "The Wardens are the only hope for stopping the Blight! You only doom yourselves!"

Bannon turned as one of the women darted through the ice statues of her compatriots and attacked Morrigan. He stabbed low, and the blade sheared too easily through her thin clothing. With a wail, the farmwife collapsed, bleeding.

"Please, we don't want to hurt you!" cried Leliana. Then a fist-sized rock thudded into her helmet. She pitched forward to her knees. More rocks began pelting down from the steep hillside. Alistair ran to stand over the fallen nun, heedless of the rakes and hoes raining blows upon his unprotected back.

Arrows began whizzing through the air, from the other direction. Two clipped Bannon, and one buried itself in his left bicept. Pain flared and he instinctivly reached over and snapped the shaft off. He immediately regretted it, as the motion caused the arrowhead to tear more of his flesh. Dammit, they were going to get cut to bits by a bunch of villagers with rocks! "Alistair," he called; "archers in the farmhouse!"

"I can't leave her!" The Templar stood stubbornly over the fallen Leliana.

"Dammit, they're not shooting at -" Bannon couldn't finish, because at that moment, a pack of dogs shot out of the farmhouse and dodged around all the combatants to target the elf. He froze a moment in panic at their ferocious barking and flashing teeth. "Help!" The three mongrel dogs split up as he took a swipe at them with his sword. The smaller ones darted in; one sank its teeth into his boot, the other jumped up and seized his wounded arm. The big shaggy one slammed into his back, throwing him to the ground. It clamped its jaws over his helmet. One huge fang pressed down over his eyes, slobber and hot damp breath washed over his face. Bannon's vision blurred as the dog started worrying his head, shaking as if to tear it off. His own scream deafened him.

Strong heat poured over him; the scent of burnt hair and charred meat assailed his nostrils.

There were screeching yelps, and the weight got off him. Bannon drew a breath, started coughing, and glanced about as he shifted to get up. Leliana had regained her bearing and was shooting up at the hill. Alistair stood halfway between her and the elf, trying to shield them both from the archers. Morrigan came up on Bannon's left and said something.

Bannon shook his head, both to clear it and to indicate he hadn't heard over the yelping of the burning dogs. He swiped blood and drool out of his eye.

"They're about to thaw out!" Morrigan shouted in warning. "We need to finish them now!" She meant the first wave of villagers, of course. The white ice coating them was growing clearer, losing its hard edges, dripping water. They might become emboldened at their archers' success and leap into the fray. The Wardens would have to start slaughtering people in earnest.

Bannon ducked another arrow. Morrigan stood unconcerned as the shafts bounced away from her, so he crossed behind her. The farmwife he'd stabbed had managed to crawl towards one of the frozen men. Judging by the look of distraught shock in his eyes, she was his wife. The ice sheath coating him cracked as he struggled to move.

Bannon shook his head. "I'll handle it. See what you can do about those archers." He went up to the erstwhile leader of these people and raised his sword pommel. He struck the shem in the head, not enough to damage him too badly... but the ice sloughed off. Bannon's left arm protested loudly, bleeding from dog bite and arrowhead, as he seized the man by the neck and pointed his sword at his face. "Tell them to stop," the elf snarled. "Now!"

"Stop! Stop!" the man cried. "Cease fire! Stop fighting!"

The farmers threw down their wepaons. Some fled. Several shapes ran from the farmhouse. Bannon had to yell at Sten to stand down as the big qunari started to finish off one of the farmers whose leg had been broken by the giant's weapon.

Leliana hurried to the wounded farmwife's side, pulling out bandages. She was too late; the woman had stopped moving. With a crack and an angry cry, her husband broke free of the last vestiges of ice. "You filthy knife-ears! You killed her!" He lunged at Bannon with his club.

Irritated, Bannon flicked out his sword and cracked the flat against he man's arm. Mostly the flat. Blood poured out of the shallow cut. With a yelp, the man dropped his weapon and cradled his arm to his chest.

"I'm sorry," the elf growled. "She wasn't wearing any armor." _You stupid shem! You attacked us, what did you think was going to happen?_

"He didn't mean to kill her," Alistair said, moving to back up his fellow Grey Warden. "It was an accident."

The man dropped to his knees beside his wife, blubbering. Leliana gnetly closed the woman's eyes. The rest thawed out in short order.

Alistair moved around Bannon and started to look at the elf's bleeding arm. He had to dodge a boy and a young girl who slid down the steep hillside and pelted over to the villagers' leader. "Dad! Daddy!" they called, voices strained with worry.

Leliana turned and looked at them, aghast. "They're children? I could have killed them!" She couldn't have had a clear shot; she must've been aiming for movement between the boulders on the hillside. Her cheeks flushed scarlet and she strode over to the man and his two children. "Which one of you threw that rock?" she demanded. She pulled off her helmet, revealing a bruise on her right temple, extending alongside her eye. The eyewhite was tinged red. "You could have killed me!" The children shrank behind their father, the boy dropping his head guiltily. Leliana glared at the man. "What are you teaching your children? Does their mother know what you're doing?"

The farmer bit his lip, then put his shoulders back. "She's dead. Taken by the darkspawn."

"And you stoop to their level?" Leliana raised her clarion voice and shot an accustatory glare at all those around her. "Attacking the Grey Wardens, the _only_ hope this land has of surviving the Blight? No," she snarled seethingly; "you're worse than darkspawn! You still have free will, and this is what you chose? You are sinners against the Maker's sight!"

"Leliana!" Bannon cut her off. "That's enough." To the villagers he said, "Take your wounded and go to the Chantry."

"Give me your knife," Alistair said, cinchging the knot on the bandage on Bannon's forearm.

"What for?"

"Looks like the arrow's hit the bone. I can cut it out or rip it out, whichever sounds less painful to you."

Bannon swore, and gave the man his knife.

"Hold still," Alistair warned. He glanced up at the looming giant approaching. "Sten, hold him still." The qunari gripped Bannon in his huge hands.

"I don't think th- AAGH!" Andraste's Tits! It felt like Alistair cut _and_ ripped! Quickly, the Templar bound up the arm.

"There," Alistair said in his cheery wound-side manner. "A decent meal for lunch and that'll be closed up by dinner."

"Seriously?" Bannon stared at him. He knew the Grew Wardens supposedly healed faster than normal, but this...

"Yes, but considering the lack of good meals around here, it'll probably take longer."

"Then we'd best see about getting lunch before it's all gone." Bannon looked around at the villagers, helping their fallen comrades towards the town. Or mourning them in the dirt. "Alistair, Leliana, help these folks to the Chantry." He knew those two felt bad about fighting commoners. "Sten go with them. Take the chest."

The qunari grunted assent and went to hoist the chest back onto his shoulder. Leliana's eyes shone gratefully for a moment, then she knelt by the bereaved husband. Her fire and brimstone ardor seemed to have been forgotten.

Morrigan curled her lip in distaste. "You're not seriously going to help these people. After they attacked us? They deserve what they got."

Bannon turned to her, but he didn't argue. "Go to the tavern," he told her. "Make sure our supplies are secure, and see what food you can wring out of them."

She chafed slightly at being ordered around, but said nothing. After all, it should be an assigment she'd enjoy. She turned and stalked off. "Out of my way, fools!" she snarled at the limping villagers. They cleared the path.

"What about you?" Alistair asked.

"I'll catch up." Bannon eyed the smoking corpses of the dogs. One seemed to be missing. "I think I need a word with that merchant."

-==#==-

"Stafford!"

The merchant dropped the chest he was loading into his wagon. It landed crookedly on the tailgate as he whirled. The man shoved back against it before it could fall. "Warden!" he gulped. "I'm a little surprised to see you." He pasted a fake grin on his sweaty face.

"Alive, you mean?" Bannon growled.

Stafford recovered himself quickly and turned to shove the chest further into the wagon. "No... no, I just thought you were leaving town."

"You sent us into an ambush."

"Me? Ambush? No!" He turned back around, his whole demeanor ingratiating. "That idiot Giles thinks he can stop the darkspawn with traps. Everyone knows that."

Bannon drew his lips back in a humorless grin. "Oh, I see. Your dogs just up and decided to join those villagers attacking us, did they? All by themselves?"

The man's beady eyes darted to the empty spot under the wagons where the dogs usually were. No dogs, no protection from the knife-ears - he must've finally realized this. He licked his lips. "I... I don't- they ran off. I- I don't know where they are."

"I think I do." Bannon drew his sword.

Stafford put his hands up. "I assure you, good Warden, ser! I didn't ha-" He stopped dead, his eyes widening. "Cutty?"

Bannon followed his gaze. The big shaggy dog had made its way back, crawling under the wagon, whining for its master. Well, it wasn't shaggy any more, with most of its fur burned off, leaving raw, blackened skin exposed.

Aghast, Stafford moved towards the animal, but Bannon was quicker. The elf stabbed his sword down into the dog's chest. With a high-pitched yelp, it collapsed, dead.

"Cutty!" the merchant cried.

Bannon planted a boot on the dog's flank and yanked his sword free. He turned the blood-smeared blade on the merchant. He backed the shem up against the wagon. "You know what I hate?" Bannon snarled low. "I hate big, fat shems who train their dogs to attack elves."

"I- I- I- I-!" Stafford's eyes bulged even wider.

"Hey!" Alistair came up beside Bannon. "What's going on?"

The elf didn't look at him. Stafford's eyes brightened with canny hope for a moment, then he realized Alistair was also a Grey Warden. "Ser! -Sers!" he began stammering again.

Bannon cut him off. "Stafford here was just going to the Chantry to donate his goods and offer his wagons to help transport the townfolk."

"What!" This, apparently, was a fate worse than death to the paunchy merchant. "Now see here!"

The elf pointed his bloody sword at the shem's nose. "I could kill you right now and offer them your goods and wagons myself," he hissed. "You think anyone would complain to see the last of your greasy hide?"

Stafford deflated. "I'll... go now, then. By your leave... ser." Bannon let him slink off while the elf found a patch of fur on the dog's carcass to wipe his sword on.

Alistair said, "You can't just go around killing everyone."

Bannon carefully resheathed his sword, letting the sound of metal sliding home cover the grinding of his teeth. "He set us up for that ambush. He sent those villagers after us. He's the one responsible for their deaths!"

Alistair chewed this over for a moment. Then he came to a decision. "It's not the province of the Grey Wardens to mete out justice. Or vengeance, or what-have-you."

Fine. While they were here, they might as well hash out a few other things, too. "When you put me in charge, was it only so you'd have someone else to blame when things went wrong?"

"What? No!" Alistair frowned. "But I never said I'd blindly follow you everywhere. I do have thoughts, you know. Opinions. And I never said I wouldn't interfere if you did something wrong. Killing an unarmed mer-"

"Not that!" Bannon ran a hand down over his face. Dammit, his arm throbbed painfully, his face still stank of dog drool, he was tired and hungry, and he had a long way to go before he could collapse into a bedroll on hard ground. And he had to herd shems. Shems who didn't obey him, or respect him, or even considered him worthy of a title like warrior or Grey Warden. And a giant qunari on top of it all. He huffed in annoyance. "In the fight. I told you to rush the archers."

"I couldn't leave Leliana unprotected," the knight insisted.

"They were only throwing rocks!"

"Those children could have inadvertently killed her."

Bannon clenched his fists to keep from throttling the man. "Kids throwing rocks and farmers with sticks!" he scoffed. "The only dangerous weapons they had were bows and arrows. You-" he thrust a finger against Alistair's chest plates - "are the only one who could have taken them without being turned into a pincushion!" He turned away, pacing agitatedly. "You wanted me to send Sten? Having a bunch of arrows in his hide would _not_ make him happy. He wouldn't have spared any of them, even given the chance."

"Well, no," Alistair admitted uncomfortably. He shifted from foot to foot. "You're right." He dropped his head. "I'm sorry, ser. It won't happen again."

Bannon yanked off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. "You don't have to 'ser' me, Alistair," he said, his anger draining away. Maker, it was like kicking a puppy. "And I do value your opinion - your help, when discussing strategy."

"But not in the thick of battle," Alistair added for him. He shook off Bannon's protest. "No, you're right. I didn't see the bigger picture. I do apologize."

"It's all right. Go on back to the Chantry. Make sure Stafford doesn't get lost on his way to 'volunteer.'"

"Alright!" Alistair brightened, his rebuke forgotten, but not his pledge to obey better. "Aren't you coming? They might have some of the elfroot stuff to help with that." He nodded at Bannon's bandaged arm.

"No, I'm fine. I'm going to see how Morrigan is doing with out lunch. Make sure the tavern isn't a smoking crater."

"We'll meet you there." Alistair gave him a quick nod, not quite a salute or bow, then marched off.

_We'll see how long that lasts,_ Bannon thought. He craned his neck to make sure the Templar was gone, then pulled out his lockpicks and popped open the merchant's chest. Crap. That's what was in it. The strongbox wouldn't be here, something Stafford was just loading. It was probably somewhere in the front, under a bench... Bannon poked around a few minutes, but didn't turn up anything useful. He quit before a customer came looking for the merchant, or the Templars came to claim the wagons.

-==#==-

He washed up quickly at a rainbarrel outside the tavern. Adding 'not getting a bath anytime soon' to his list of grievances, he found Morrigan at a table inside and gratefully got off his feet. He sighed tiredly.

"Having a rough time, are we?" Morrigan asked.

"You have no idea," the elf griped. "It's like herding idiots!"

There was a pointed silence from the witch. Bannon glanced over. Her lips were pressed tightly together, her eyes sparking. Bannon pressed a knuckle to his forehead and chuckled voicelessly. "I'll make you a deal," he said, glancing sidewise at her from under his bangs. "Never mention city elves and Chantry boys lost in the wilderness, and I'll stop complaining about idiots."

"Not a chance." But the witches lips curled up in a tight smile. "I doubt either one of us could hold to such an oath for long, in any case."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, and couldn't help smiling back. "All right, how about one day? And one night. Tomorrow and afterwards..." He flicked his hand. "Anything goes."

She stopped suppressing her smile, which softened her lips into a pleaseing shape. "Very well. Unless you slip up. In which case, you're fair game."

-==#==-

Lunch consisted of a thin soup. Alistair and Leliana reported on the evacuation proceedings. The two seemed optimistic. "By this time tomorrow," Alistari said, cheerfully stuffing a crust of bread into his mouth, "this place will be a ghost town." Bannon couldn't argue with that. After all, once the darkspawn got here, they'd make sure of it.

Their respite was brief. They retrieved their gear, adjusted their packs and weapons, and set out. Morrigan gave her pack to Sten. "You want me to carry this for you?" the horned giant grumbled.

"That would be very sweet; thank you!" the witch simpered in mock gratitude.

Bannon gritted his teeth. As leader of this rag-tag band of lunatics, _he'd_ wanted to pull that trick.

As they headed out the western road, they automatically arranged themselves in a loose battle formation. Alistair and Sten went in the lead, followed by the ladies, and Bannon brought up the rear. They kept an eye out at the choke point behind the windmill, but the area was clear. Someone had even removed the charred dog carcasses. Someone who'd probably have a meatier soup tonight. Bannon made a face. He didn't like dogs, but he was still Ferelden. Eating them seemed... vulgar. He'd prefer rat meat any day.

They followed the hard-packed wagon ruts south between the fields. This road led to the stone ramp that connected with the westward-bound Imperial Highway. As they approached, the wind picked up, sweeping the group with a chill. No... Bannon realized as his stomach knotted, not the wind - "Darkspawn!"

They were ahead, on the raised Highway. Bannon and Alistair were already running forward when they heard someone cry, "Leave him, boy! They're going to kill us!"

The Wardens crested the ramp to find a handful of darkspawn menacing two dwarves and... a mule? The Tainted creatures turned, hissing and snarling at their hated foes. Alistair crashed into the nearest without slowing down. Roaring a battle cry, he flattened a hurlock and knocked two genlocks staggering.

Bannon darted around Alistair's left, sword and dagger stabbing at the beasts while they were vulnerable. There was a clod of dirt near the top of the ramp. Without breaking stride, the elf scooped up a chunk in the fingers of his left hand and flung it in the face of the hurlock closest to the two dwarves. The stupid thing had been starting to roar at him, and it caught a mouthful of dirt just as it inhaled. The clump disintigrated in a spray of particles, the tiny, gritty missiles peppering the darkspawn's eyes. It gagged, hacked, and staggered back, trying to clear its vision. Bannon landed a kick to its midsection that doubled it over, then swept his blades across its unprotected throat.

The qunari was right behind them, sweeping his maul in deadly wide arcs. Together with the Grey Wardens, he cleared a swath through the darkspawn. Bannon raced around the edge of the skirmish, heedless of the jagged darkspawn weapons. Even the pain in his arm faded. At last, an enemy he could decimate without holding back, without fear of the consequences. He lashed out at one after another, hacking at arms, legs, any chinks in the armor. He crippled more than he killed, leaving them for the others to finish off.

After a few hazy moments - minutes? - of fighting, he and Alistair stood panting in the center of a scattering of bodies and blood. Sten dropped his hammer on the skull of a hurlock that was still kicking. There was a crunch like a giant eggshell breaking, and the thing flopped one final time.

"They die as easily as any other creature," the qunari observed coldly.

Alistair blinked and shook himself. He looked around as if noticing his surroundings for the first time. He spied Leliana, splashed with blood where she'd entered the fray with her sword. "Oh, um," he said, stowing his weapon and shield. "Make sure you wipe that blood off. Don't let it get in your mouth, or any open wounds. It carries the Taint. Here..." He went to the Chantry Sister, his demeanor once more glib and cordial. "Are you hurt?" He fished around checking his pouches and pockets for a hanky.

Leliana produced one and began dabbing at her face. "No, I'm fine," she said, wide-eyed.

Bannon rubbed a hand over his face, trying to smear a gout of blood off his cheek. He spit at the edge of the Highway.

"Grey Wardens are immune to the Taint," Alistair explained. "But you'll need to be careful. There's no cure. Once the Taint gets inside you..." He ducked his head sheepishly. "Well, that's bad."

Bannon turned to the dwarves cowering beside their cart. "Are you all right?"

A brown-haired dwarf with short-trimmed beard straightened up and came forward. The other, a younger one with sandy hair and a broad moon face, clung to the donkey's neck. "Did you say Grey Wardens?" the elder asked. "By the Stone!" He eyed the pile of Tainted corpses, which was all the answer he needed. "Name's Bodahn Feddic, messires. This here is my boy, Sandal." He turned and gestured.

"Toby!" the younger dwarf said.

"Yes, and our donkey, Toby," Bodahhn said indulgently.

The beast in question was a white donkey with large patches of rust red. It sat between the traces, looking a bit wall-eyed. Bannon couldn't tell if it was frighted out of its wits or if it just didn't have any wits to be frightened out of. His eyes covetously examined the cart. It was smaller, lighter than an oxcart. But bigger than a handcart, plus it came with a beast to pull it. The Grey Wardens could use something like that. Bannon brought his attention back to the conversation between Feddic and Alistair.

Alistair was asking, "Why was the road closed?"

"Don't know. But when I heard Loghain's men up and left, I figured me and my boy could get through."

"They were stopping people going to Redcliffe?" Bannon asked.

Alistair turned to him. "Apparently. Wouldn't do to let any allies get through to Arl Eamon," he said sourly.

Bodahn said, "They said the road this direction wasn't safe. All the refugees had to head east. Well, I don't know anyone out that way, and if there's a Blight coming on, I want to be closer to Orzammar." He glanced between the Wardens. "Just in case."

Bannon said, "You're welcome to travel with us. We're heading to Redcliffe. Might be safer."

Bodahn chewed that over a minute. "That's very kind," he said; "but your lives might be a bit more exciting than is good for my boy and me. If you know what I mean." He narrowed his eyes shrewdly at Bannon. What? Did he think the elf was going to murder them and steal their cart? Honestly, they were harmless merchants, or so Bodahn claimed. Murder never crossed Bannon's mind.

Morrigan came over to him. "I thought we were trying to put as much distance between ourselves and this doomed place as possible," she prodded.

"Yes," Sten agreed. "We are going." With that, the giant turned and started down the Highway. The witch followed.

"Suit yourself," Bannon said to everyone in general, since they would, anyway. He turned to go after his 'followers.'

Alistair said to the dwarves, "Make sure you don't linger here to long."

"Safetly on the road," Bodahn wished them with a wave.

"Bye-bye Grey Wardens!" the boy, Sandal, called after them.


	17. In the Lion's Den

In the Lion's Den

**CONTENT:**

Rating: Teen

Flavor: Drama

Language: mild

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

This may not be the Loghain you expect. I'm not a big Loghain fanatic, but I like his character a lot. This may not be the Anora you know; I am so not followng the wiki on her - especially concering her mother.

I have also taken liberties with the Arls, arlings, Banns, bannorns, and the Bannorn. I have MUC (made up crap) in an effort to create some more detail. Bann Teagen does not appear here, since it makes no sense (even in the ephemeral timelessness of the Dragon Age world) for him to be there now and to get back to Redcliffe ahead of the Wardens.

* * *

><p><strong>In the Lion's Den<strong>

_Denerim_

Loghain paced the length of the balcony like a lion surveying his territory as he dictated the requirements of Ferelden's army to the assembled nobles. The one hundred and thirty-one banns of the Bannorn milled on the assembly hall floor. Loghain raked them with a stern gaze. "And I expect each of you to supply these men!" The banns chafed under the levy he set.

Arls and Teyrns, the high-ranking nobles, controlled several districts of Ferelden, but the vast heartland of the country was made up of a conglomeration of small holdings. The banns refused to be united under any arling, stubbornly intent on going their own way. Thus they formed the Bannorn with a capital 'B.' And bickered and feuded, allied and intermarried, and all-around represented the independant spirit of Ferelden. Normally, Loghain admired that. But someone had to bring this unruly pack to heel. He had to make them see the dire peril the nation faced.

"We must rebuild the army lost at Ostagar, and quickly," he said, his military voice filling the hall. "There are those who would take advantage of our weakened state." He waved, gesturing towards the west. There was no doubt he meant Ferelden's old enemy, the neighboring country of Orlais.

The Orlesian Empire had occupied Ferelden for over two decades, until Loghain and King Maric, Cailen's father, had led the uprising to overthrow them almost thirty years ago. Freedom had been hard-won, at the cost of many lives. Some of the younger nobles didn't seem to understand this. Cailen had even once called Loghain paranoid. That foolish boy didn't understand. Maric had only told him tales of glory and triumph, becoming a golden hero in the boy's eyes. Cailen never understood the sweat and blood shed by desperate freedom fighters.

They'd only bloodied the beak of that great vulture, Orlais. It was sitting on its perch, eyeing Ferelden, waiting to see it stumble. Waiting for the opportunity to swoop in and finish it off. With darkspawn clawing at her flanks, Ferelden looked poised to fall.

Loghain would not let that happen - no, not while he still had blood in his body or sweat on his brow. "We need to defeat this darkspawn incursion, but we need to do it sensibly and without hesitation." He stopped pacing and looked down at the assembly.

They muttered and whispered amongst themselves, drawing into different knots. One man stepped towards the balcony. He was young, about Cailen's age, with his blond hair tied back in a warrior's queue. Loghain recognized him as Oswyn Sighard of Dragon's Peak. "May I speak?"

Loghain nodded once, and the crowd moved back to give Bann Oswyn room.

"Loghain," he boldly addressed the general; "you have declared yourself regent to Queen Anora, and you have insisted we must band together under your leadership for our own good. But what about the army lost at Ostagar? Your withdrawl from battle was... fortuitous."

There was a gasp from the crowd. Loghain heard Anora's intake of breath from behind him to his left. The banns growled protests, some against the slander of Ferelden's greatest hero, some... not so supportive.

"I have only said what is foremost in everyone's mind," Bann Oswyn said boldly.

Loghain leaned forard on the balcony rail. "Everything I have done," he thundered, "Has been to secure Ferelden's independence. I have not shirked my duty to the throne." He straightened, looking over the entire hall. "And neither will any of you!"

"The Bannorn will not bow down to you simply because you demand it," Oswyn cast back at him. The boy was tenacious. And the Bannorn was rebellious in the best of times. Loghain remembered Maric always saying that no king had ever gotten anywhere with the Bannorn by using an iron fist. Loghain had always thought him simply a weak king. Perhaps he had misjudged his old friend.

Perhaps sensing more support for his outlandish ideas, Oswyn said, "If my father were here... Or Arl Eamon, or even Teyrn Cousland, they would not stand for this!"

Loghain raised a hand sharply, almost as if to strike the boy from the balcony. "Enough! We do not need political in-fighting at a time like this. The safety of Ferelden and her people are paramount! I will brook no threat to this nation's sovereignty," he warned. "You will all do your duty!" By the Maker, he'd withstood a company of Orlesian chevaliers at the River Dane, he could keep the unruly banns in line long enough for them to defend their own country! He turned and stalked out, nothing more to say. This assembly was over. He'd given the banns their orders. If they disobeyed, they would be dealt with.

===#===

Anora approached the rail as her father and his loyal arls and guards departed. "Bann Oswyn," she called down.

The nobleman turned and bowed. "Your Majesty. Forgive my bluntness," he said as he straightened; "but your father risks civil war."

"My father is doing what is best for Ferelden."

"Best for Ferelden, or best for himself?" His face softened. "Your Majesty, you are Queen of Ferelden -"

Anora folded her hands. "I am a diplomat, Bann Oswyn, not a warrior. My father is a great hero of war. He knows what he is doing. Please, you must follow him to victory over the darkspawn."

"Like the army at Ostagar?" Oswyn's face grew cold and clouded once more. "Did he do what was best for Ferelden then? Did he do what was best for your husband?"

Anora flinched. Her father would never commit treason! What reason would he have? Cailen was his best friend's son, and his daughter's husband. "Your allegations are wrong," she said firmly. "My father is a true patriot. The Bannorn would do well to heed him. Once the darkspawn are vanquished, he will step down."

"I admire your conviction," Bann Oswyn said. "But I'm afraid not all of us share it." He turned to go. "By your leave, Your Majesty."

Anora nodded and set her own feet towards her chambers. She scanned over the crowd as she turned. How many would oppose her father? Would they be so few that the others could sway them? She fervently hoped so, before Ferelden was torn apart by war.

===#===

Loghain put aside his heavy plate mail. With careful efficiency, he settled the pieces on the armor stand. The substantial weight of the armor had become such a part of himself lately that he felt almost disembodied without it. Like a spirit barely tethered to the earth, he might drift away at any moment. Then he frowned down at his clothing that had been rumpled under all the padding. He crossed to the wardrobe and pulled the doors open.

Though his rank of teyrn was second only to royalty, he eschewed having a valet. He was, after all, only a simple farmer at the core. Though he didn't mind having servants to cook and clean the vast keep at Gwaren he rattled around in, the day he was too old and feeble to manage his own armor and clothes was the day after they put him in his grave.

Attired in a suitably somber grey, he went to the door of the Queen's chambers. A glance at the guards posted outside was sufficient to send them to the end of the hall. Loghain rapped his knuckles on the door. "Anora?" He was met with silence. "Anora," he tried again, raising his voice slightly. "I dislike having a conversation through a door." He stood back and waited.

After a minute or two, when Loghain had to decide between yelling and walking off, the door opened. One of Anora's handmaidens bowed and stood aside to let him in. It was that dark-haired elf from Orlais that he didn't like. "I will need to have a private word with my daughter," he said, dismissing her.

Anora came to the door of the inner chamber. "I will ring if I need you, Erlina."

The handmaiden bowed towards each of them and left silently.

"Are you coming to dinner?" Loghain asked his daughter. He had raised her to be strong and independent, like Queen Rowena, Cailen's mother. His wife had other ideas, however. Celia had seemed to think noblewomen should be more like Orlesian ladies, fine and delicate.

"No," Anora said harshly. She came into the room, her porcelain brow marred with a firm line, her blue eyes sparking. "I will not have that toad Rendon Howe sizing me up like a prized heifer at auction! I will not marry his Thomas or Nathaniel or anybody! I am the Queen of Ferelden, and I'm tired of being treated like some war trophy! My husband is dead scant weeks-" She broke off and seemed to rein herself under control. "Oh, Cailen," she whispered sadly.

Loghain moved to her and gently touched her chin to comfort her. He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned her head, breaking contact.

"Did you kill Cailen?" She looked up into his eyes.

He sighed. "I told you everything that happened," he said softly. Everything except Cailen's collusion with the Empress of Orlais. The empress had urged Cailen to put Anora aside in favor of a political marriage to none other than herself. If only Anora knew of Cailen's treachery... but those documents had been lost at Ostagar. "Cailen's death was his own doing. I told him it was too great a risk to fight alongside the Grey Wardens. If he had remained at my side, he would still be alive now."

Anora dropped her gaze. This time, when Loghain put a comforting hand on her shoulder, she did not pull away.

"Are you sure you won't come to dinner?" he asked again. "Rendon Howe is our strongest supporter."

That was exactly the wrong thing to say. Anora's eyes flashed. "Then you get in bed with him!" She turned and stalked back into her bedchamber. "My husband is dead! I'm in mourning!" She slammed the door.

Loghain bit his lip. It pained him to see her like this. He loved her dearly, but it was this type of temper tantrum that Celia had instilled in her. He heaved a sigh and turned to go. He had Howe to deal with. That man was coming dangerously close to overstepping his bounds.

===#===

Rendon Howe wasn't much to look at. He'd never been very tall nor very broad, his nose was to strong, his chin too weak, and age had only shrunken and hardened him. He didn't look like much, true, but underneath he was all sinew and steel. He'd fought under Loghain and Maric in the war to oust Orlais, and he was a ruthless butcher. Case and point was his crowning achievement - murdering his best friend's family in order to take over the arlship of Highever. Such an act would never have been tolerated in a time of peace. But in-fighting amongst the nobles was not unheard of in Ferelden, and that arling was his, as long as he was strong enough to hold it. If any of the banns of the Highever arling had any objections, they hadn't voiced them anywhere.

The fortunes of war had smiled again on Rendon when the arl of Denerim had perished at Ostagar, and the man's only son and heir had been murdered. Howe had been the de facto ranking nobleman to step in and take that situation in hand, and with the Blight, there hadn't been time for politicking. The arlship of Denerim had fallen into his lap.

Howe was dressed in slate blue, idly buffing his manicured nails on his shirt. He looked up as Loghain entered. "Will the Queen be dining with us?"

"No," Loghain said, gesturing for the butler to begin serving. "She is still in mourning."

"Ah, I see." Howe approached the table. "I'm afraid I have bad news, sire." Loghain grimaced, but was hardly surprised. He had a feeling he knew what it would be. "Though you have the support of the southern arls, and of course, the entire northeast -" the territory Howe controlled - "many of the independent banns will not accept your regency. They are already gathering their forces, as are your allies. I'm afraid it's to be civil war." Howe sounded perturbed, but he couldn't quite keep the undercurrent of antcipation out of his voice. More war, more killing, more dying - more chances to glean power.

Loghain cursed softly under his breath. "Don't those fools realize the threat the darkspawn represent?" He poured his own wine, not waiting for the servants. He took a gulp and sat down. "If only more of the old guard were alive, we wouldn't have to deal with such petty bickering."

Howe took his seat, fastidiously arranging his napkin as the food was laid out. He froze at Loghain's words and looked over. "Is that a rebuke, sire?" He narrowed his eyes. Loghain wrinkled his lip. Pointedly, Howe said, "Bryce Coulsand was also a teyrn; the only man powerful enough to threaten your position. It could be argued that a general should not also -"

"Yes, yes," Loghain growled, cutting him off. He knew the politics.

"As it is," said Howe, "Arl Eamon has the only other claim to the throne." His voice became dry as he efficiently sawed at his meat. "And I understand he has his own concerns occupying him."

Loghain grunted noncommittally. He tended to his own plate.

After a few minutes, Howe casually broached another topic. "There is another concern, sire. There have been reports of Grey Wardens who may have survived Ostagar."

"Nonsense."

"Possibly. But the reports still keep coming in. I wonder if there couldn't be something behind them."

Loghain frowned in thought. Cailen had insisted on a Grey Warden to man the Tower of Ishal and light the beacon. Loghain had pulled the cliff patrols to give the darkspawn access to the tower. And yet, the beacon _had_ been lit. Someone had been up there, not on the battlefield. "Damn."

"Would you like me to handle it, sire?"

Loghain wondered a moment what Howe could gain from such an assignment. It seemed harmless enough. He shrugged and resumed eating. "Yes. Keep me informed."

"By your leave, sire." Howe bowed his head humbly.


	18. On the Road

On The Road

**Content:**

Rating: General

Flavor: Drama/Comedy

Language: i don't think so

Violence: none

Nudity: none

Sex: none

Other: none

_Author's Notes:_

This is one of the parts I warned you about where the characters just stand/sit around and chat. (Or walk around, as the case may be.)

* * *

><p><strong>On the Road<strong>

Morrigan lengthened her stride to keep up with the qunari. "Are you still confused, and think me not a woman?"

"No," he replied, not looking at her. "You are a beast that wears the face of a man."

"A beast now, am I?" She narrowed her eyes up at him. "I suppose that's an improvement over a- never mind. But with the face of a man?" She frowned. "Are you calling me ugly?"

"Do not speak to me."

"And why not?"

The giant stopped dead and turned, nearly clubbing Morrigan with his elbow as he did so. Sten glowered back at the Wardens. "I have heard you Fereldens do not chain your _saarebas_, nor sew their lips shut. But do you let this dangerous beast roam free? Where it will? When it might turn on us at any time?"

"Well," Alistair said aside to the elf; "he's pegged Morrigan again."

Bannon aimed a smack at Alistair, not really connecting because he'd just bruise his hand. To Sten he said firmly, "This is Ferelden. We don't enslave anyone."

"I was led to believe that all your _saarebas_ - mages, do you call them? - were penned in one place."

"Oh, you mean the Circle Tower," Alistair supplied. "Well... all _legal_ mages are there, yes." He narrowed his eyes at the still-glaring witch.

"Look," Bannon said forcefully. "Morrigan is our ally. The only ones she's a threat to are our enemies. Or -" and here, he shot a pointed glance at both Sten and Alistair - "anyone who insists on annoying her."

Sten scowled down at the witch. "As far as I am concerned, you are a dangerous beast and not to be trusted."

"As far as _I'm_ concerned," she shot back; "you're just another fool Templar."

"Great," said Bannon, projecting a tone that both cheerful and hostile at the same time. "Now that's settled, can we get a move on?"

The qunari turned and resumed his quick-paced march. Morrigan followed behind with Bannon, Alistair, and Leliana.

===#===

"I've been thinking," Bannon said a bit later, at an opportune moment. "I think we should pool our money." Alistair, Leliana, and Morrigan looked at him. He spread his hands in an open, honest gesture and explained. "The Grey Wardens aren't exactly in a position to pay us any more. With a severely limited income, it would be more efficient for us to combine our resources so we can equip and resupply everyone."

"That makes sense," Alistair said.

"And who is meant to be holding all our money?" Morrigan asked.

"I think I should," Bannon told her honestly. "I've had quite a bit of experience stretching pennies and eking out bargains. Unless you have a better idea?"

"I like to do a fair bit of shopping," said Leliana.

Morrigan snorted. "You like to spend money on fripperies like make-up and shoes."

"Well, but I do like to find a good bargain, yes?"

"As I understand it," Morrigan said, not directly answering; "elves that live in the cities are so poor, even the beggars look down on them."

"Yeah," Bannon said with bitter humor. "That's us."

"Well," said Alistair; "I'm rubbish with money, so I think it's a good idea." Ah yes, cross one more responsibility off Alistair's list.

"Is there anything you're not 'rubbish' at?" Morrigan asked him, clearly already having an opinion on the subject.

"Yeah," Alistair growled. "Smiting apostates!"

"Funny, I thought you were kicked out of Templar training."

"Guys, that's enough," Bannon snapped.

"Yes, please," Leliana agreed. To the elf she said, "Would each person be able to have an allowance for personal use?"

"That's a good idea," Bannon said. It _was_ a good idea. It would keep morale up, and his 'minions' could be rewareded with coin - if they had any to spare. "We'll see how much we have when we stop for the night." Bannon looked down the road, hoping it would be at an inn. Make that a deserted inn, everyone having fled the darkspawn. Cheaper that way.

===#===

They pushed as far from Lothering as they could that day. They stopped once, the Wardens sensing another band of darkspawn near the road. The cretures, two dozen or so, turned towards them. Bannon, Leliana, and Morrigan picked off most of them, firing down from the raised Highway. A few managed to climb the Imperial Highway's struts. Sten, sighing in impatience, waited for them and clubbed each one as it finally made it to the rail.

Bannon checked their ammunition supply and decided the time and effort it would take to climb down and retrieve their arrows and bolts would be too great. None of them knew how to make arrows either, though Leliana hazarded she could figure out how to fletch one.

"I know who you can pluck for feathers," Alistair said.

Bannon kicked him in the shin. Morrigan just glared.

===#===

They hurriedly set up camp in the waning light. They only had one tent. It was decided that Leliana and Morrigan could share it. Morrigan had other ideas, however. She set up her bedroll and her own small fire in a corner of the clearing. Sten eschewed the need for any shelter or bedding. No wonder his skin was so thick. Bannon and Alistair set out their bedrolls by the central fire.

Suddenly, Alistair gasped and flinched back. "It's that shirt!"

Bannon moved to his side and looked down into the Templar's bedroll. Sure enough, the paisley monstrosity was lying there in it. "Alistair," he gasped, widening his eyes; "you told me a Bandersnatch stole it!"

"Yeah, I did," the knight said, frowning in confusion. He cut a suspicious glance at the elf, who looked as surprised and bewildered as possible. Alistair collected himself. "I mean... It did! I-I have no idea how it got here." He narrowed his eyes.

"You know what this means?" Bannon said dramatically. "It's haunting you! The spirit of the Paisley Monstrosity. I've heard legends of such things in the alienage."

"Legends of haunted laundry?"β

"It will not rest until you Wear The Shirt," the elf proclaimed direly.

"Really?" Alistair said dryly. "Oh wait, I think..." Cautiously, he knelt by the bedroll. "Yes, I think I hear it calling me..." His face went slack, his eyes unfocussed. Slowly, he lifted the shirt. "Alistair," he intoned, "Alistaiiiiiiir... Wear the Shirt. Become the Purple Monstrosity..."

Bannon gaped at him.

"Don't think so." Alistair balled up the shirt and tossed it over his shoulder.

The elf glanced to where it had landed, then looked back at the knight tidying his bedroll. "All right, but it's on your head." As he went to finish straightening his own kit, he noticed Leliana staring at them. She'd brought up the pot full of water to cook dinner.

"Do I want to ask what that was all about?" she said.

"Uh...," said Alistair sheepishly, while Bannon scratched his head, wondering how you explained two Grey Wardens being goofy. Alistair made vague hand gestures. "It's... you had to be there."

"Well, I was here," Leliana pointed out. "I still don't get it." Alistair and Bannon just shrugged. The bard sighed and gave up. "Bannon," she said, "may I speak with you?"

"Sure." He moved to her side. Alistair offered to help prepare the soup, so Leliana relinquished the pot to him.

She said to the elf, "I apologize if I inadvertantly insulted you. I did not realize you were the leader of the Wardens." She twined her fingers nervously. It would have been a decent apology of she had stopped there. But then she said, "It's just that you seem so young. It must be an elven thing."

"Oh," Bannon said jovially, "you mean you didn't mistake me for Alistair's serving boy?" Alistair coughed over the carrots.

A bit of colour rose in the Chantry Sister's cheeks. "I... it wasn't like that," she stammered, until she brought her voice under control. "In Orlais, elves are held in high regard."

Bannon softened. "Really?" He'd never heard of shems valuing elves, except perhaps as cheap labor. And even that stopped as soon as any shems complained of not having a job because of them.

She nodded. "Elves have a natural grace and beauty that most find aesthetically pleasing. They are highly sought after in the rich households of the Orlesian courtiers."

Was that supposed to be a compliment? His brow creased. "They're valuable because they look good with the carpeting and drapes?"

"No, that's not it at all," she protested. "Many are trained artisans, gifted with song and dance. Some of these talented elves make more money than human craftsmen."

Bannon glanced at Alistair. The human was looking at him with a pained grimace. "So they look good with the decor _and_ they're good entertainment at parties?"

"I do not know why you insist on twisting my words," she said, a small line appearing between her brows. "I only meant that while here in Ferelden, elves are seen as shabby, unskilled laborers, in Orlais they are held in higher regard. They are given choice positions, dressed in the finest fashions, kept in sumptuous chambers."

"Ah, I see," Bannon said, smoothing his features and calming her with a gesture. Dressed up in ribbons and lace, trained to dance and sing, the aesthetically pleasing elves were kept in the rich noble houses like pampered lapdogs. He wondered how many noblemen visited ther elven women's sumptuous chambers to be 'aesthetically pleased' in private. Aloud he just said, "Yes, I understand now."

"Good." She smiled, dimpling prettily. "Oh, and..." She turned to fetch her purse from the tent. "The funds for the Grey Wardens."

"Thank you, Sister Leliana." Bannon tied the purse to his belt.

"Just 'Leliana,' please," she said, moving to stir the soup. "I am not a fully-ordained Sister." There was a big surprise.

For some. "Really?" Alistair asked.

"I was Affirmed," she clarified. We reaffirm our faith in the Blessed Andraste, but no other vows are taken. I was staying in the cloister, where peace and sanctuary are given to all who seek refuge."

"But why would you need refuge?" asked Alistair. "Were you running from something?"

"Oh, no. It was more like I was running _to_ something." She looked at Alistair. "I... had some turmoil in my life. A rest in quiet contemplation helped me find meaning and clarity."

"You mean," Bannon ventured, "your mission to aid the Grey Wardens?"

"Yes! Just so."

Right. There was a load of manure big enough to hide a pony or two. Bannon would have to figure it out later. Whatever she was up to, her goals seemed to coincide with theirs for now. He'd keep an eye on her. Maybe Alistair could pry more information out of her; she seemed to get along well enough with him. Hah! What was he thinking? Bannon would just have to ingratiate himself with her. Yeah, maybe later.

"I should go check on Morrigan," he said.

"Better you than me," Alistair grumbled.

===#===

Bannon approached the outlying fire warily. He wasn't sure of Morrigan's mood, but if it were turning bad - worse - he'd have to do something to make her happy. Happier. Less murderous, let's say. "Morrigan?" he asked deferentially. He smiled softly, his subtle and trustworthy smile. "Are you settling in all right?"

She fed some more twigs to her fire and dusted her hands off. "Yes. Just keep that qunari of yours away from any needles and thread." The witch cast a dark look across the camp, where Sten was patrolling, prowling restlessly at guard. "And I thought the way the Circle treated mages was barbaric."

"I won't let him try anything."

Morrigan arched a brow at this. "How do you propose to stop him? He's easily twice your size."

"Well, he's honorable, isn't he?" Bannon said. "The Reverend Mother put him in our custody, so he's bound to do what I say." Boy, he hoped! Morrigan looked skeptical. "Isn't that what you said?" he asked her. "You called him a noble creature left as darkspawn fodder?"

She looked aside. "Well, that was based on a first impression."

Aha, so she didn't know anything about these foreign qunari. Bannon shrugged. "If all else fails, I suppose his head burns like any other."

She smiled at that, genuinely pleased. Then her countenance darkened. "Just make sure your fool Templar doesn't get any ideas."

"Alistair knows he's not supposed to be a mage hunter."

"Be sure you keep reminding him."

"I can handle him," Bannon said firmly.

"Mmm," the witch mused, raking her eyes over him. "Yes, you are too clever by far, aren't you?"

"Ah, well, I try," Bannon said with an ingratiating smile. He looked down at the ground, hoping she didn't realize the full extent of his cleverness, or he'd be a very clever pile of ash. Best to change the subject. "You must be glad to get back to the open, away from all those people in town."

"It is a relief to be away from those doomed fools," she said.

Bannon looked up at the unexpected venom in her voice. "Morrigan," he said slowly, not without a bit of worry, "you do know it's people like that the Wardens are trying to save?" Why was she helping them?

"Not exactly like them, I would hope." She frowned at his expression. "The Chasind have a saying," she explained. "'The gods help those who help themselves.' If they wanted to survive, they should have made more of an effort, don't you think?"

"Yes," Bannon said hesitantly, thinking about his effort to save Shianni and the other women. A nearly futile effort. No - he mustn't think that. If he hadn't tried at all, things would have been much worse. Not for him; he'd be a free man instead of a murderer - but for the women.

"The Wilds has its own law," Morrigan said, breaking into his thoughts. "Survival of the fittest. The strong survive, the weak perish. Do you not agree this is so?"

Again, Bannon thought back to his own experiences, his life in the alienage. The powerful shems, the ones with money, lived well. The elves, too poor to afford lavish meals, died younger. And then there was Liam. Once Bannon's closest friend, Liam had become crippled, a beggar. Too weak to work. He'd died barely a year later. Bannon rubbed his face. "Yeah," he agreed with the witch. "I do think it is true."

"'Tis such a relief to talk to someone with some sense."

Bannon cocked his head at her. "Is that a compliment?"

"Only if you need to fish for them," she countered, pressing her lips together to supress a smile.

"Not quite that desperate," he replied shielding his own smile. Maker, she wasn't flirting with him, was she? He shook his head. "But you don't need to stay way over here," he said. "There's plenty of room in the tent. Leliana doesn't mind sharing."

Morrigan looked past him to the main camp. "I think not," she declined. "You forget I know how disturbing the Grey Wardens are to those trying to sleep."

"Ah, of course." When they'd slept at the inn, the nightmares hadn't seemed so bad. Whether it was the shelter of the walls, or the comfort of a real mattress, Bannon couldn't say. He hoped they found more places to stay the nights. Somehow, he doubted it was in the cards. "Well, suit yourself," he told the witch cordially. "As you usually do."

She gave him another cat-like smile.

"Now about the money for the group funds...," he prompted.

Her teeth caught her lip as she nodded. "And should I refuse to lend my money to the pot?"

He spread his hands. "You're an independent woman," he said. "If you wish to keep your own finances that is, of course, your prerogative. But," he added with a slight moue, "if you do, I'm afraid we can't provision you from the group stores." Yeah... clever _that_, witch!

"Hmm." She hooded her eyes. "Very well, then." And just like that, she handed him a pouch full of silvers.

Bannon was surprised. "I didn't expect this much. I mean, living out in the Wilds, I didn't think you'd need much money."

"We do not." Morrigan shrugged. "Which is why it accumulates. Mother's visitors often carry money with them."

But they didn't take it when they left? Bannon was far too smart to wonder aloud, but who would travel to such a Maker-forsaken mudhole to spend money on a whore? And... _Flemeth?_ He suppressed a shudder.

"It's not what you think," Morrigan said slyly, reading his expression.

"Do I want to ask?"

"No. You _really_ don't." She had that cat's smile again.

Bannon nodded, any last traces of curiosity immediately doused. "Well, dinner will be ready soon. If you'd like to join us," he said deferentially. "If there's anything you need, let me know."

"If there is anything I need and cannot acquire on my own, what do you think you could do about it?"

He spread his hands again, walking backwards towards the main camp. "I can't promise anything," he said. "But I could try." He turned and continued back to the big fire. Stuck-up witch. At least he hadn't given her a chance to order him to bring her meal over.

===#===

Bannon found Sten pacing back and forth across the track that led from the road to the clearing. He balanced his huge maul over one great shoulder pad. He must be glad to stretch his legs after being stuck in that cage for days. Bannon thought he might wear a trench in the ground. "Sten," he said cautiously, for the qunari seemed a bit over-eager to smash something.

The giant quit pacing and faced him, his brow drawn low in a scowl. "Why this delay?"

"Well, it's getting dark, and some of us need to eat and sleep. Qunari sleep, don't they?"

"Yes."

"And eat, I presume."

Sten sighed. "Yes."

"There you go, then." Bannon smiled encouragingly at him. The giant's expression changed not one whit. Oh well, best to carry on. "I was wondering if you are any good with a bow."

"No."

"Ah. Well, we can teach you. We could use some help with the hunting."

"No."

Bannon blinked. "No? Why not?"

"I am a warrior. The bow is not a warrior's weapon."

"We're not going to fight," Bannon said. "We're just going to shoot some deer or maybe rabbits or something. If you're worried about being embarassed, don't be. You can't possibly be worse than Alistair."

"I am Sten of the Berasaad, the vanguard of the Qunari nation. I am a warrior, not a hunter."

Vanguard of the stubborn nation. "But you could learn," Bannon insisted.

"It is against the Qun."

"What's the 'kyoon'?"

Sten straighened, appearing even taller than usual. "The Qun is our sacred text. It defines who we are and what each shall become."

Bannon tilted his head. "A book told you that you're a warrior?" he asked carefully.

"The Tamassrans divine each child's place in life, based on his abilities. Every qunari fills the role he is best suited for. To struggle against one's place in life is to go against the Qun, to disrupt the harmony of the world."

Bannon shook his head. "And you can't learn anything else? What about a hobby?"

"Why would I do anything else but that which I am most suited to do? And what is a 'hobby'?"

"Something you do in your spare time. You know, for fun?" Bannon looked up into the stony grey face. "Uh... fun? You do know what that is, don't you?"

"Fun...," Sten mused. Then he scowled further. "The qunari do not have 'spare time.'"

"You're _always_ warrioring?"

"Yes."

Boy, this guy needed to relax. "All right, then. Keep up the good work."

===#===

Bannon counted out a handful of silvers as he walked back to the fire. He hunkdered down next to Alistair and handed the coins to him.

"What's this?"

"That's the money I owe you."

Alistair looked at him. Bannon looked back. After a moment, Alistair said, "You're paying me back now, just as I'm about to hand over all my money to you anyway?"

Bannon grinned. "Yep."

Alistair chuckled. "All right then. Can't say you never paid me back." He handed over his own money pouch, and the extra silver.

"No, you can't." Bannon went to sit on his bedroll and count the money. He'd never seen this much money before in his life. And the gold coins - they were so small! He tried to act nonchalant and not do anything crazy like scooping up the coins and letting them fall through his fingers like cold water. But they did glitter so in the firelight. He couldn't help it if they reflected in his eyes. He counted three times - just to be sure, you know - then put them away.

The soup was bubbling merrily. Leliana stirred. Alistair changed the bandage on Bannon's arm. It was well-advanced on its healing. The dog bites had been reduced to mere scratches, already scabbed over. Morrigan came over from her corner, offering Leliana a small packet of spices from her herb collection. Alistair bit his lip in worry, but Leliana beamed brightly at the witch and thanked her.

Sten came over a few minutes later, with that dwarven merchant they'd met earlier today. "Bodhan Feddic," the garrulous fellow reminded them, "in case you've forgotten. When I saw your campfire I remembered your kind offer. My boy and I won't be any imposition, but I'd feel a lot safter if you'd let us park our cart nearby." He didn't give them time to answer. "And, we've a mutton bone for the pot, to sweeten the deal."

Alistair grinned. "Bodhan, you're my new best friend!"

The dwarves parked in their own little corner of the clearing, away from Morrigan. Bodhan insisted on not travelling with the Wardens, but he was content to follow them around, scavenging any armor or weapons the Wardens' troupe couldn't carry with them. He even offered to sell them goods at a discount. Bannon wondered if they couldn't just rent tents from him for the night. Or crate space to hault their camping supplies. But it wasn't certain the little donkey cart could keep up with them, or that the dwarves wouldn't just decide to go off in some other direction.

Still, the possibilities were there. They'd see what unfolded on the road to Redcliffe.

===#===

Party Banter: Demon Squirrels

Bannon: Alistair, where did that shirt go?

Alistair: Oh, some little woodland creatures dragged it off to line their nest or something.

Bannon: Are you sure it's safe to leave it? Future travellers could be attacked by demon squirrels.

Alistair: ::dryly:: Oh yeah, a pair of paisley chipmunks. Scary.

Bannon: It'll be on your head!

Alistair: I think that's a risk I'm willing to take.

* * *

><p>β: 800 Bloodsong points if you know where "haunted laundry" comes from.<p>

Sorry, you can only see Bloodsong Point answers on the forum or the blog. :X Links are in my bio.


	19. continued

_This is the end of Chapter One of Bannon & Zevran: Origins._

_The story continues here:_

_.net/s/7995676/1/BZ_Bk_I_Origins_Ch2_A_Wolf_in_the_Fold_


End file.
